


Come What May

by amsch (calendulae), WitchyLurker



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge! Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Dancing, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Lingerie, M/M, Meaningful Touching, Medium sized steve;medium sized bucky, Musician Bucky Barnes, Mutual Pining, Paris (City), Spy Natasha Romanov, courtesan bucky, you do not need to have seen moulin rouge to enjoy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-03-14 16:11:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18951547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calendulae/pseuds/amsch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchyLurker/pseuds/WitchyLurker
Summary: The glittering, luxurious exterior of the Moulin Rouge hides a dark secret.When Steve Rogers, investigative journalist, is slipped a mysterious red letter under his door, all he knows is this: he's given a secret assignment, with a secret organization, that wants him to go undercover at the world's most famous brothel.But he's not the only one with an agenda, and soon Steve finds himself entangled in a world of lies, secrets, and hidden passageways. At the heart of it is the one courtesan who holds the key to unraveling all of it.Among the romance and glamour of Paris at the turn of the century, Steve and Bucky have until New Year’s to learn one another’s secrets—if they don’t fall in love first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019 and was a collaboration between myself and WitchyLurker, who did the four amazing pieces of art for it, and was the best collaborator an author could ask for!  
> Thank you Witchy for your fantastic ideas, wonderful feedback, and endless encouragement! I'm so happy I got to bring this fic to fruition for you.
> 
> Thank you also to @odetteandodile, the best bff, who supported me through every step of writing this from plot brainstorming to fashion inspo to the AHH IT'S TRASH, IS IT TRASH?? stage and reassuring me that no, it is not.  
> And of course @spacerenegades who is my #1 hypebeast and a beta extraordinaire and forced me to send her snips so she could be encouraging. What else can a girl ask for.
> 
> I want to emphasize that there is no tuberculosis in this Moulin Rouge AU! Nor will you find any dub-con or non-con. #SoftEndingsOnly2k19

 

**Paris, December 1899**

Steve checked, for the hundredth time that morning, that the bright red envelope was still tucked into the pocket of his threadbare coat. He peered deeper into the grimy Montmartre alley, checking for anyone watching him as he shivered against the frosty wind, waiting for someone to answer his knock. The black door was just where the letter had said it would be, with the silver knocker in the shape of an eagle’s head.

This whole situation he’d found himself in—starting with the vague yet persuasive letter from Sam a few weeks ago, the red envelope slipped under the door while he slept last night with precise instructions—it was all very cloak and dagger, he thought with a wry smile. If he didn’t trust Sam implicitly, there was no way he’d be standing here, knocking on a mysterious door to discuss a “mutually beneficial business proposal”.

The door opened, and a redheaded woman in an emerald green dress stood in the threshold, a flicker of a smile playing across her face as she took in Steve’s hand-knitted scarf and scuffed shoes.

“You must be Steve Rogers,” she said, with a faint accent that Steve couldn’t detect the origins of. “Right on time. Come in.”

She held open the door for him, and Steve followed her down a dark hallway into a sparsely furnished office, windowless but warm with the glow of oil lamps, with a large desk in the middle. Another woman was seated behind the desk, and she stood up as Steve entered, offering him a warm smile.

“Mr. Rogers,” she said, with a crisp British accent that momentarily surprised Steve. She gestured for him to take a seat in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. “Thank you for coming. My name is Peggy Carter. You’ve already met my colleague Natasha Romanov.”

The redheaded woman inclined her head to Steve, but didn’t sit down.

“I expect you have some questions about why we asked you here today, so let me just start at the beginning. You were referred to us by a Mr. Samuel Wilson, who works with my American counterpart, Nicholas Fury. You recently came on our radar because of your investigative skills as a journalist, and your undercover reporting, specifically. It’s obvious, reading your work, that you care deeply about justice, both on a large and small scale, as well as righting wrongs where you are able.”

Steve shifted a little awkwardly. It was true, but it felt odd hearing it laid out in blunt terms like that. He was still a rookie reporter, with only a couple years of local reporting in New York under his belt. It wasn’t until he’d met Sam and started publishing with his independent press that his writing had started to turn heads, including some powerful people who weren’t too happy with his progressive ideas.

His recent undercover exposé, however, was the reason he’d come to Paris for a few months to lay low. As it turned out, exposing the corruption in New York City’s police force made you a lot of enemies. He had been lucky to get it published at all, but part of him worried if he’d killed his career before it even had a chance to get off the ground. Autumn in Paris had been quiet, his long days alone giving him plenty of time to think while ostensibly working on a manuscript. But he was getting restless without something to sink his teeth into—and now here was Peggy Carter to break the monotony, with her keen eyes and dapper, sharply tailored suit.

“What is it you’re proposing exactly?” Steve asked.

Peggy leaned towards him over the desk, meeting his eyes. “We have an urgent undercover mission that we think you would be the right person for. It’s a hell of a story, and if you are able to help us we’ll return the favor and let you get to be the lucky reporter to break it. It will be dangerous, but it seems you’re not the type to shy away from a little danger when there’s injustice to be exposed, are you?”

Peggy smiled at him, a little too knowingly for Steve’s taste. These women had clearly had him pinned down before they’d even asked him to meet.

“We would need you to begin immediately,” Peggy continued, “starting tonight, for about a week. I can’t give you any more details until you officially consent. You will be under our protection, but as a free agent, able to make your own choices as to how you wish to proceed.”

Anticipation was already stirring under Steve’s breastbone. Even with the minimal amount of information Peggy was dangling before him, he found himself more than tempted to take the bait. If it really was as big as Peggy was saying, the opportunity to break a piece like this could be a once-in-a-career chance. And something about Peggy told him she wasn’t the type to exaggerate. There was no way he was going to turn this down. Besides, if Sam trusted these people, as his letter had said, Steve could surely do the same.

“I’ll do it,” he said. Natasha was at his side before the words had finished coming out of his mouth, melting out of the shadows where she’d been listening.

“We’ll need you to sign this contract,” she said, placing a paper and a fountain pen in front of him. Peggy busied herself with some papers on her desk, giving him a moment to read it over, taking in the extensive secrecy clauses, all of it increasing his suspicion that he’d stumbled into something truly monumental here. He signed it and handed it back to Natasha, who looked pleased. No going back now.

Peggy looked satisfied as well. There was something about her, and Natasha, that Steve felt, deep in his gut, was trustworthy. He’d always had a sense about people, a certain instinct that had yet to lead him astray. She pulled out a thick file from a locked drawer in her desk.

 

“Well, let’s get started then.” Steve leaned forward keenly as Peggy slid a grainy, black and white photograph of a handsome older man across the desk.

“This is Alexander Pierce,” she said, tapping the photo with a red-lacquered nail. “A nasty motherfucker, as my American colleague would say. Natasha brought him to our attention a few months ago. Nat?”

“He’s originally from Russia, but has been moving from city to city, working his way west over the past decade. He uses brothels as a way to gain political power and influence—when you own people’s secrets, you own their purse strings as well. He’s made millions by destabilizing local governments in smaller cities across Eastern Europe. But he wants more money, more control, and a bigger stage to play out his power fantasies. He arrived here in Paris a few weeks ago and already slithered his way into control of the Moulin Rouge. I assume you’ve heard of it?”

Steve nodded. Everyone knew of the Moulin Rouge, even in New York. It was one of the most famous bordellos in the world—just to get an audience of a few hours with a courtesan meant you probably had more money than Steve’s entire block back home.

“The organization that Fury and I run was created to maintain the current political peace—under strict secrecy, of course,” Peggy said. “The current agreements between Britain, the United States, France and Russia are fragile, but holding steady. Pierce and his shadow network could bring that all crashing down.”

“All of the most powerful people in France frequent the Moulin Rouge. And if Pierce is gathering their secrets as they do, he can blackmail his way into holding the reins of the government, the economy, trade, the military…” Steve trailed off, the implications becoming clear.

He glanced over at the large world map pinned to the wall, covered in indecipherable scribbles and color-coded pins. It was true that the current detente was built on a delicate web of promises and debts and thinly veiled lies, particularly the new and fragile alliance between France and Russia. And the United States had only just finished making sure everyone knew it was a player on the international stage with the Spanish American War. He imagined this Pierce character as a bloated, greedy spider lurking in the center of the web, holding the strings of a world-wide conflict.

“You’re no doubt wondering what exactly your role will be in all of this,” Peggy said. “You’ll be undercover as a young American heir, with an extremely wealthy oil family heritage. That’s enough for Pierce to allow you in as one of his VIP clients. These patrons, as he calls them, meet with James, his star performer as well as his most trusted and prized courtesan. While you’re spending time with James, you’ll be collecting intelligence that will help us bring him down.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to do it?” Natasha asked, fixing Steve with an intensely direct gaze.

“What you’re asking is...it’s a lot of responsibility. I mean...preventing war? I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.” Steve shook his head, mind swimming with the scope of it. He could barely wrap his head around it yet—but he also knew what his only possible answer was. “But I’m willing to do it. Someone has to do it, especially if the consequences are as dire as you say they could be. And I know you wouldn’t have come to me unless you were out of options.”

“It’s true that the agent we had lined up for this job had his cover blown a few days ago, and we were left in the lurch. But that doesn’t mean we haven’t had our eye on you anyway. You’re a good fit for this, Rogers, even if you are a bit green.” Peggy winked at him and pulled a second file, a much thinner one, out of the same drawer, sliding it across the table to him.

“I’ll give you some time to look over the information in this file and prepare yourself, but unfortunately our timeline has been shifted forwards, and we will have to start tonight. Natasha will be at your flat at 8 pm to take you to the Moulin Rouge.”

“You already have a private appointment with James after the show tonight,” Natasha said.

Steve registered the slight smirk in her voice, and something occurred to him.

“When you said I’d be ‘spending time’ with Pierce’s courtesan...what exactly did you mean?”

Peggy’s tone was extremely even as she replied. “However you see fit to complete this job as thoroughly as possible. You may use your discretion as an undercover agent.”

“See you at eight,” Natasha said, opening the office door for him and ushering him through. As the black door shut firmly behind him, Steve wondered what exactly he’d gotten himself into.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You look passable,” Natasha announced, straightening the bowtie of Steve’s borrowed tuxedo and giving him a critical once-over.

Staring in the mirror at himself, Steve thought he might look better than passable, though the thought gave him a quick twinge of guilt. From his pomaded hair down to the very shiny shoes and the surprisingly well-fitted tuxedo, he looked like a different person from shabby, broke journalist Steve with his rumpled shirts, battered notebooks, and perpetual ink stain somewhere on his face.

“I look believable,” he said out loud, surprised that he did look the part of a golden playboy heir.

“A few final touches,” Natasha said. She moved behind him and placed a hand on each of his shoulders, pulled them back so his chest puffed out and his chin naturally tilted up. “Posture is key to letting people perceive what they want to see. The way you carry yourself as Steven Grant—your privilege has to be obvious in every gesture, every step.”

“I’m familiar,” Steve said.

He knew what privilege walked and talked and looked like, thanks to two years as a scholarship student at Harvard. It was easy to picture in his mind the mannerisms of the cruel, careless boys who’d tried to make his life hell for that brief period. He allowed his shoulders to settle back, an expression of glib boredom on his face.

He’d decided in the course of the afternoon, crafting his character, that Steven Grant was a bit of a louche dandy, studying painting in Paris in a milquetoast attempt at rebellion (and an excuse to carouse his way through the hedonistic pleasures of the city). The file he’d been given to study contained a very thorough family background and some impressively legitimate documents, the details of which Steve had tried his best to cram into his brain in the short time he had. But before he knew it, dusk had fallen, he was surrounded by pages of scribbled notes, and Natasha was knocking on his door, looking forgettable in a dowdy brunette wig and shapeless black dress.

“Good,” she said, nodding as Steve practiced walked across the room as Steven Grant, mumbling some phrases to himself to find the ones that felt right. “Now, we can’t be directly seen with each other, but I’ll be staying in your orbit and checking in with you. We’ve rented a private box for you, number 12. All you need to do tonight is sit there and enjoy the show, and keep an eye out for Pierce. He has a reserved box, number 2, but he may or may not be there. Wait for someone to come to you after the show—Pierce knows that you, or, rather, that Steven Grant is in attendance and you’ll be taken back to your appointment. We’ll rendezvous in the morning.”

“The private appointment—I don’t know what you—”

Natasha cut him off.

“Just collect as much information as you’re able to. James will certainly be doing the same on Pierce’s behalf. You’re free to play the situation as you see fit—if I’m not mistaken, you’ve gone undercover in some pretty intense situations…” She raised an eyebrow at him with a smile. “So what’s one courtesan? Peggy and I are confident that you’ll be able to follow your instincts.”

Steve swallowed down his anxiousness and nodded. Natasha was right. He’d faced much worse than this. He squared his shoulders.

“Let’s go,” he said.

 

The Moulin Rouge was like nothing Steve had ever seen before—a riot of colors and sound and sensation from the second he stepped through the heavy, ornate doors. Natasha faded away behind him, and he made his way through the crowd into the main dance hall. Everywhere he looked there were performers in exotic, flashy costumes, mingling with a seemingly infinite number of men in identical tuxedos and top hats. A raucous can-can was happening on the main stage in the center of the room, the music blaring across the huge room to bounce off the gilded ceiling and the gold-painted walls.

Pausing at the center of the dance floor, he glanced up towards the private boxes that lined the upper balcony.

He spotted Pierce’s reserved box, looking out directly over the stage like a dark, empty eye socket. Steve watched it for a minute, and then—as he was about to turn away, the door opened and a slender figure entered the box, a black robe and long, dark hair blending into the shadows. He stepped to the front of the box and the golden glow from the stage fell on his face, beautiful features marred by a desperately unhappy expression. Steve was transfixed, drawing in a quick breath. Like he’d heard it, the man in the box looked down suddenly, his eyes fixing on Steve’s.

The crowd eddied around Steve, dancers seeming to whirl in slow motion in the corners of his vision as he and the man in the box stared at each other, a sudden, inexplicable connection pulled taut between them.

And then, as quickly as it had been strung, it was broken.

 

 

                                                          

 

A pale hand landed on the man’s shoulder, making him startle, and a silvery head—Pierce—appeared out of the gloom. Pierce was speaking low and fast to the man, and he turned away from the dance floor, allowing himself to be led out of the box. There was a split second where he looked back over his shoulder, Pierce’s hand on his lower back, an expression on his face like maybe he’d imagined it—before his eyes found Steve’s once more. And then he was gone.

Steve stood there, letting people jostle him as they danced, just another anonymous man in a tuxedo. The whole encounter had taken no more than a few seconds, but he felt unsettled by it.

Before he had time to dwell on the feeling, a booming voice echoed through the room, announcing the start of the show in just a few minutes.

He made his way up to his private box, feeling a little silly to be sitting there alone, perched on the edge of the deep, bed-like velvet couch, surrounded by rich damask curtains. He watched as the audience below him stilled into tense anticipation, their faces turned as one towards the stage.

The house lights dimmed and the stage’s spotlights swiveled around before alighting on a single figure on a swing, facing away from them, slowly being lowered from the ceiling. The man on the swing looked over his shoulder, coyly, and a tumble of dark brown curls fell down the back of the sequined bodysuit he was wearing, his face still partially in shadow under a black silk top hat.

 

                                                    

 

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. It was the man from Pierce’s box. The sharp angles of his face looked different without the lost look that Steve had glimpsed before. His full lips were curled into an inviting smile, his smoky blue eyes sparkling and bright as he leaned back on the swing and began to sing. Every face in the audience turned up toward him like flowers to the sun, gasping when the swing was lowered enough for them to raise their hands to try and touch him, clamoring for his attention, cheering over the music. He had the crowd wrapped around his finger immediately. Steve was mesmerized.

“And now you’ve met James,” came a sardonic voice from behind him. Steve whirled around to see Natasha blending in effortlessly with the shadows in the corner of the box. She was now wearing a blonde wig and the same plain, dark colored leotard as the girls serving drinks.

“Just slipped in to check on you,” she said. “He’s something, isn’t he?”

Steve looked back at James, who was currently holding up a sparkling necklace in his black-gloved hands and pouting magnificently as men and women in the crowd took turns coming to the swing and presenting him with what looked to be real diamond jewelry.

“He….is. Something. And as well as...performing, you said he’s Pierce’s eyes and ears? What exactly is their relationship?” Steve asked. “I saw them in his box before the show and it didn’t look like...everything was well between them. I’m not sure exactly what I saw, to be honest.”

“I’ve been tracking Pierce for years now, and all I know is that James has been with Pierce since his early days in Russia. He would have been quite young.” Her face fell into an unnatural stillness for a moment, a thousand-yard stare in her eyes, before she refocused on James.

“Pierce trusts him with the highest profile clients, the bank owners, the senators, the oil barons—and their impressionable heirs,” she said, nodding at Steve. “A pretty face and a listening ear in your bed after some pleasure and alcohol go a long way in collecting secrets. James will do anything in his power to get you to divulge what you know, but you’ll have to string him along to gain time. And I expect you to be doing everything in _your_ power as well. Time is not on our side.”

Steve hesitated for a second, aware of the many gaps in the story he’d been told by Peggy earlier.

“Why exactly _is_ there such a rush on this mission?”

“Pierce hasn’t been in Paris very long—but the Moulin Rouge was the first place he went. Like I said, pleasure and alcohol are two of his favorite tools—where better to wield them than here where the rich and powerful are already clamoring to pay for it? A month later, the previous owner was dead of what the police commissioner, a frequent visitor of the Moulin Rouge, might I add, ruled to be a suicide. And a week after that, a brand new will just happened to be discovered, with Pierce as the sole inheritor of the Moulin Rouge. He’s already moved in, and as you can see, no one is complaining about the changes he’s made to the show.” She gestured toward the stage, where James was singing a new song from his swing now, the crowd joining in lustily.

Steve glanced towards Pierce’s box - still empty.

“He hasn’t made any political moves yet. But on January 1st of the new year, the Moulin Rouge is officially his.” Natasha’s eyes flashed with rage, a dark well of something deeply personal spilling over for just a second. “We need to stop him before that. By whatever means necessary.”

Startled, Steve realized that he might have a different idea of what ‘taking down Pierce’ meant than Peggy and Natasha.

“Do you mean—Are we... _killing_ Pier—”

The door to the box slammed open, and a harried looking stagehand was standing there. “You’re needed on the floor, sir. Come with me.”

Steve hesitated, half standing. Natasha was nowhere to be seen. “On the floor? Why?”

“Your presence has been requested by Master James. Now, if you please,” he beckoned to Steve impatiently.

Steve stood up, automatically, and allowed the man to steer him out of the box and down a side staircase, his heart speeding up as he realized they were heading directly to the center of the dance floor, where an open space had been cleared. As the stagehand pushed him out into the blinding spotlight, stumbling a little, he had the distinct feeling that whatever tenuous control on the situation he’d been holding onto had just been yanked out of his hands. Lounging on the petals of a throne constructed to look like a giant rose, was James, his fishnet-clad legs crossed coquettishly at the ankle.

“My darlings, it’s that very special part of the night where I get to choose my first dance partner,” he said, his voice carrying out over the crowd. “And I’ve chosen—”

He stood up, unfolding gracefully from the throne, looking at Steve for the first time. There was a flash of recognition—appearing and vanishing so fast Steve thought he might have imagined it.

“—Prince Charming here to receive the honor. Isn’t he handsome?” he asked the crowd.

Steve felt a deep blush rising as the envious eyes of hundreds of men and women focused on him, reluctantly cheering their assent at James’ urging. James turned to him again, so close now that Steve could see the individual silver sequins on his bodysuit, and put his gloved hands on Steve’s shoulders, running them down his arms. Steve felt his body go even more rigid than he already was at the contact.

“So tense!” James admonished playfully. “Here at the Moulin Rouge, we like to loosen up and have a little fun, don’t we?”

The crowd cheered. James moved to put his hands on Steve’s hips, but caught Steve’s eye and hesitated, an expression crossing his face that Steve couldn’t read. Instead, he pulled his hands away and gestured out towards the crowd.

“Find a partner! This dance is open choice!” With a barely perceptible gesture to the conductor, the orchestra started up and the crowd’s attention was diverted away from Steve as they began to pair up, the performers appearing from the wings to mingle with the crowd.

James leaned in close, his lips brushing Steve’s cheekbone. “You don’t seem very prepared for our private meeting later, Steven. It’s quite an honor to be chosen for the first dance, you know.”

Before he could respond, James turned away, a stagehand appearing at either elbow to hustle him out of the crowd quickly before anyone noticed his absence. Steve made his way off of the dance floor, politely smiling and shaking his head at the men and women who attempted to ask him to dance. Inside, however, he was fuming. How dare James yank him into the spotlight without even a warning, and then not let him get a word in! And he’d just stood there, frozen, like a fucking fool while James had played him.

He made it back to his box, accepting a drink from one of the serving girls on his way, and flopped down onto the couch. He held the cool glass against his still burning face.

An hour passed with no sight of Natasha, James or Pierce. Long enough for him to replay their interaction several times over in his head until a new, even more pressing worry started eating away at him—the thought of what it was going to be like to be totally alone in a room with James.

Finally, someone came to collect him, leading him through a twisting maze of hallways until they emerged in what could only be James’ private quarters. It had the same lush, over-the-top baroque style as the rest of the Moulin Rouge, with large, rounded windows looking out over Paris’s skyline and an enormous, red silk-sheeted bed in the center of the room.

Everything about the Moulin Rouge and this room in particular, the opulence, the excessive luxury on display, set him on edge, reminding him how far he was from home.

Going undercover as a working class Irishman or a factory worker was one thing, but this—this was something entirely different.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky paused outside the closed door, adjusting the lingerie that was his go-to for men like this. Rich, spoiled, barely-grown men always wanted to be seduced by a smoldering temptress, and he’d had plenty of practice getting them right into in the palm of his hand. Both literally and figuratively.

“Hello again, Prince Charming,” Bucky said, opening the door and sauntering in.

He watched as Steven’s eyes traveled down the red silk corset, with its tiny waist, the lacing down the back leading to delicate folds of fabric that melted to the floor in a train. His mouth parted in a small ‘oh’ before he snapped it shut.

“James,” Steven said formally, with a small bow. He was standing in the middle of the room, still with his tuxedo jacket on. Usually by the time Bucky arrived, the men were already half disrobed, not to mention hard and ready to get straight to the main event.

“Please, Steven, take off your jacket. And sit down on the bed. You’re my guest, after all.”

Steve pulled off his jacket somewhat reluctantly, and perched on the end of the bed.

Bucky walked over to the bottle of champagne cooling on ice and poured two glasses, taking a minute to figure out what his approach should be with Steven. His body language, although confident, was all wrong for someone who’d paid an ungodly amount of money to be here. He heard the echo of Pierce’s voice in his head. _We need this client...vitally important that you get anything you can out of him….If he’s going to be your last patron, you better do this right the first time or not at all._

He hadn’t known who Steven was, when they’d locked eyes earlier from the box. And he certainly didn’t know what the frisson that had passed between them was, or what it had meant. But whatever spark he’d felt with the anonymous, beautiful man in the crowd was gone now. This was Steven Grant, patron, American oil heir, and a situation he had well in control—he’d already made sure of that. The high stakes of this job meant that losing control of the situation would be disastrous.

“So, Steven,” he said, bringing the champagne flutes over to the bed and sitting down next to him on the silk sheets, leaving a friendly distance between them. “Tell me about yourself. What brings you to Paris?”

Steve took a sip of the champagne. “Thought I’d come see what all the fuss was about this ‘Bohemian’ nonsense my classmates at Harvard were always going on about. I’ve been to the Continent for summers of course, but I wanted to get more of Paris’...local flavor.” He winked at Bucky. _Ugh_. “Father’s paying for me to dally around for a few months, taking some art classes...but mostly it’s drinking, laying about in the park, and making sure I don’t miss out on the many...attractions that Paris nightlife has to offer.”

He smirked, and Bucky felt a surge of satisfaction at how quickly he’d been able to nail Steven Grant down with just a few pieces of information from Pierce. How utterly predictable his well-funded life of leisure was.

“And what about you?” Steven said, jolting Bucky out of his moment of self-congratulations. Well. This was different.

“Tell me about yourself, James,” Steve parroted, with a small smile. Bucky took a sip of champagne to delay. Patrons didn’t ask about James. They didn’t want to ‘get to know’ James, let alone Bucky. They wanted whatever one-dimensional projection would fill their needs and act as a receptacle for their thoughts.

“Oh, I’m just a courtesan,” he deflected. “I perform in the show, as you saw. I’m _very_ talented…”

He placed his hand on Steve’s leg.

“Would you like to see some of my other skills?” he asked, letting his voice go breathy as he leaned in, sliding his hand up Steve’s thigh, feeling his muscles tense.

Quickly, he pushed Steve back so he was laying down, and flipped his leg over so that he was straddling him on the bed. Steve’s mouth went slack, his breath coming fast now. His eyes were fixed on Bucky’s mouth. Bucky palmed Steve’s cock through his pants with one hand while the other was on Steve’s bowtie, untying it with a well-practiced flick of his wrist. He popped the top buttons of Steve’s shirt open, leaning in and licking his lips.

Steve let out one stifled moan, but as soon as it left his lips his eyes snapped back into focus. He flailed wildly for a second and jumped to his feet, dislodging Bucky in the process. Steve looked down at the obvious bulge in his pants with a betrayed expression. He walked rigidly over to the window, where he stood with his back to Bucky, his breath wheezing faintly.

Bucky felt a twinge of annoyance that one of his patented moves had failed, not to mention being tossed like a sack of potatoes had messed up his hair. Time to turn the heat up a notch. He took the opportunity while Steve was standing at the window muttering to himself to arrange himself seductively on the bed.

“What’s the matter, big boy?” he purred. “Nervous?”

“Please don’t call me that. And stop calling me Prince Charming while you’re at it.” Steve muttered, not turning around. “And no, I’m not nervous. I’m…I’m…”

“Well, you’re obviously not having trouble getting inspired. So is there something else you want to tell me, or…?” Bucky didn’t want to make Steve force out an pitifully obvious lie by asking straight out if he was a virgin, but with the way he was reacting…

Steve turned around and didn’t even look at Bucky, instead focusing somewhere over his head.

“It’s not that. I just…I….” He trailed off as Bucky spread his legs a bit more and let one of his hands trail through his hair, down his chest, playing with a nipple. Steve’s eyes flicked down briefly and then away again.

“Do you want to watch?” Bucky asked, letting his eyes go heavy-lidded. His hand trailed further down—

“No! Stop! Please just stop,” Steve said abruptly. He dragged his hands through his hair and turned away again.

Bucky sat up and took a deep breath, forcing irritation down and making his voice as patient as possible. “Listen, Steven. You’re my guest and it’s my job, as a courtesan, to make sure you get your money’s worth. What is it that you want? Bondage? Pain? Role play? You want me to scream? Cry? Pretend to be your father? Believe me, there’s nothing you can say that will surprise me.”

“I want to get to know you,” Steve said, turning around. His voice was decisive now. There was still a bright blush on his neck, but his face was calm, with none of the awkwardness from before. “I guess you could say I’m a hopeless romantic. As embarrassing as that is to admit to you, it’s the truth. I was hoping that we could spend more time together and …see where things go from there.”

Bucky stared back for a moment, nonplussed. Then he stood up from the bed and walked over to his desk, pulling a sheet of parchment and a pen out of a drawer. He dashed off a note, sealing it with wax, and opened the door, handing it to one of the bodyguards stationed outside.

“Take this to Pierce, please. It’s urgent, see he responds right away.”

He closed the door and turned to Steve, smiling the bland, cordial smile of an automaton.

“One moment, please. Can I offer you some more champagne?”

Steve shifted from foot to foot, his eyes darting to the door, but nodded and accepted the glass. He opened his mouth to say something, but Bucky ignored him. He sat down at the vanity instead and began to fix his hair, pulling out a tube of scarlet lipstick and reapplying it with slightly more dramatics than was strictly necessary. In the mirror, he saw Steve’s eyes follow the motion of the lipstick, before he walked over to the window again and studied the Parisian skyline, fidgeting with his open collar. A minute passed before the coded knock came on the door, the silence excruciating, as Bucky watched Steve in the mirror and Steve looked out the window with unconvincing interest.

 _J—_  
_Tell him I’ll arrange a dinner for 7pm tomorrow and some activities for you two over the next three days. He paid enough to cover that and more. Don’t forget the terms of our deal—if he doesn’t sing like a pretty little songbird, neither do you._  
_—P_

“Well, Steven, looks like your wish to get to know each other has been granted,” Bucky said, failing to keep all the sarcasm out of his voice. “Dinner, 7 o’clock.”

Steve nodded and gathered his neatly folded jacket from the chaise lounge where he’d set it.

“Thank you for the evening, James,” he said formally. “I’m looking forward to spending more time with you.”

And then Bucky was alone, much earlier than he’d anticipated. He sighed and pressed the hidden panel in the wall, tucked into a corner of the room. It opened onto a plain bedroom room, with one small window, spartan pine furniture, and a rickety-looking upright piano against the wall. Bucky pulled his painstakingly handwritten sheet music out from under his single pillow and sat down at the bench, tugging at the laces of his corset so he could breathe again.

He wasn’t pleased about the three days—of what? talking? sharing?—hanging over his head. Not to mention the fact that if he didn’t get any good blackmail potential out of Steven Grant, Pierce would snatch away Bucky’s chance to perform one of the songs he’d written. Pierce had well-respected opera singers and musicians coming in from all over Europe to perform for New Years Eve, and the audience would be similarly high caliber, with the clout to jumpstart a career in music. If Bucky was ever going to have a chance to be something other than a courtesan—this was the show where it would happen, where he could debut his music to an audience that would see that it was good. And Pierce knew it.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day passed impossibly slow for Steve. Natasha came by to check in and seemed pleased by his progress.

“The hopeless romantic bit was a nice touch,” she said, prowling around his apartment, picking up his things, studying them, and putting them back down. It was driving Steve crazy.

“Mmm,” Steve hummed noncommittally, from where he was ironing his tuxedo.

He could  _feel_  Natasha hone in like a dog on the hunt without even looking up.

“Oh no. Steve. Tell me it’s not true.”

“The best lies are half true,” Steve mumbled. “Didn’t Benjamin Franklin say that?” He started ironing even more vigorously. “Anyway, me being a  _tiny_  bit of a hopeless romantic has nothing to do with this job. I’m a professional.”

Natasha didn’t deign to respond to that.

 

 

By the time evening arrived, Steve’s relentless nervous energy had driven him outside to walk along the Seine. The river was sluggish with chunks of frozen ice, but Steve barely noticed, torturing himself by replaying the night before, in all it’s mortifying technicolor.

He’d spared Natasha the details. There was no way to casually say “ _The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes straddled me wearing a corset on a huge silk bed and it was simultaneously the best and worst moment of my life_.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have stopped James. Maybe he should have let it play out. It wasn’t like he couldn’t picture where it was heading. He had experience—not much, but enough that he wouldn’t embarrass himself. His partners had always given him good feedback, and he’d felt happy to make them feel good; satisfied, like it was a job well done.

But deep down, he’d always kind of thought that other people were exaggerating when they talked about arousal like some kind of wildfire they couldn’t control, a desire that inflamed their minds. He definitely felt  _something_  when a rousing discussion of socialist politics turned into foreplay, or when he had that rhythm and synchronicity with a dance partner that moved beyond the dancefloor. Was that what everyone was talking about?

If you’d have asked him before last night, he would have said that he’d have to know the person well, that he couldn’t just  _want_  some stranger like that.

But last night, from the moment he’d seen James in the box it had been different. Steve thought again of James’ smile, his fingertip at his nipple, his thighs bracketing Steve’s hips—and a wave of embarrassing, potent lust washed over him at the memory alone. Steve groaned in frustration. Of course this would happen to him now! Last night he could have used a little of that cool indifference instead of barely keeping it together trying not to look at James’ lips.

Three more days of  _that_  loomed in front of him with all their potential for his further embarrassment unless he could collect himself. Maybe he should just drown himself in the Seine, he thought, adjusting his pants as he sighed and trudged home.

 

 

He arrived at the Moulin Rouge, not yet open for the evening, to be let in a side door and led to a formal dining room.

It was dark, lit only by gold candelabras reflecting off the long, highly polished black table. It had room for at least 30 people, but was set with only two places across from each other in the center. Steve took a deep breath, already feeling that the setting did not bode well for him.

James entered through a different door as the waiter poured Steve a glass of wine, wearing a burgundy velvet coat that cut in sharply at the waist before flaring out over tight black brocade pants. His hair was swept up into a twist, and he had rings on every finger which glittered distractingly.

As he sat down, his eyes flicked over Steve’s tuxedo and Steve felt sure that he knew it was the same one as the night before, no matter how much Steve had ironed it and tried to wash the smell of smoke and sweat out of it in his bathroom sink.

They smiled at each other, polite, formal smiles, and Steve again had the feeling that somehow James was managing to shift the control back to himself by making this dinner as ceremonious and uncomfortable as possible—from his jewelry flashing in Steve’s eyes to the multiple bodyguards lurking in the corners of the room.

James had the same vacantly cordial expression he’d worn at the end of last night.

“How do you find Paris, Steven?” he asked. “How long did you say you have been here?”

“Not too long.” Steve answered easily, determined not to lose his footing again. “And it’s a good change from New York. How long have you been in Paris? You’re not originally from here, right?”

“I haven’t been here very long either. And I haven’t seen enough of Paris to have an opinion on it. I’m mostly here at the Moulin Rouge.”

The waiter brought out two bowls of soup, and Steve frowned down into his. Could James have possibly given more of a non-answer? He hesitated a second too long, staring at the complicated place setting and trying to remember if you started from the inside or the outside. When he looked up he caught James was watching him with a calculated look in his eyes. James quickly dropped his eyes, sipping demurely from his spoon, and Steve picked up the matching one in front of himself and hoped he hadn’t blushed.

They finished the soup in silence, and the waiters brought out the next course, about which they made some mind-numbingly boring small talk before eating that in silence as well. Every topic Steve attempted to bring up was met with a bland response that didn’t allow for further conversation. James mostly pushed his food around, and Steve couldn’t find much appetite to eat either. This was going down as one of the worst dinners of Steve’s life, even without considering it a professional failure.

“So, do you like working here at the Moulin Rouge?” He tried again. “I bet you meet a lot of interesting people. And I suppose your colleagues are quite fascinating as well.”

“Indeed,” James said. “It’s an honor to work at such a renowned establishment.”

Steve clenched his fist under the table, trying not to show any sign of his mounting frustration at James’ deflections. He knew when he was being stonewalled, and as much as he wanted to steamroll his way through it by willpower alone, he also felt certain that tactic wasn’t going to work with James. He needed to get some kind of information about Pierce or this whole dinner would be a wash.

“So tell me about your family, back in America,” James asked.

Steve was taken aback by the abrupt subject change.

“Well, they’re...they’re in New York.”

“You told me that last night,” James said blandly.

“Father’s in oil, mother’s involved in society,” Steve recited, scrambling mentally for his carefully rehearsed backstory. “No siblings. I don’t see much of either of them, as Father’s usually out on business trips out west and I’ve been away at university. Which, honestly, was such a bore—but going to Harvard is a bit of a tradition on Father’s side of the family, and he wanted me to get enough of the book learning to take over the business in a few years.”

“So you don’t get along?” James asked.

“Well, you know how it is,” Steve said, with a lazy, conspiratorial smile.

“I really don’t,” James snapped. He clenched his jaw, the muscles bunching for a second, before the mask fell back down. “I never knew my parents,” he said calmly, cutting off a bit of the roast pheasant they’d been served but not eating it.

Steve stared down at his own pheasant.  _Fuck_. How would Steven Grant respond to this? Steve Rogers wanted to say that he knew a little bit of that yearning, the missing piece in his identity where his father could have been. But he couldn’t.

The silence was stretching out too long. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, can you point me to the restroom?”

James tilted his chin towards the door Steve had entered through but didn’t meet his eyes.

“Down the hallway to the left.”

Steve passed the bodyguard, noting the outline in his jacket where a gun was certainly holstered. The bodyguard didn’t acknowledge him, and didn’t follow him out into the deserted hallway either. Perfect.

Steve turned and went the other direction, away from the public sections, trying each of the locked doors. A few opened onto dressing rooms, mostly dusty and unused. A group of half-dressed dancers passed him in the hallway, sneaking glances at him and whispering amongst themselves. He went to tip his hat and remembered he wasn’t wearing one, turning it into an awkward half-nod, half-bow.

_“That’s Bucky’s newest…..special treatment….I hear he…”_

_“...looks like he…”_

They all looked back at him and tittered in a way that made his face instantly go hot. He couldn’t do anything but pretend he hadn’t heard. Ducking into a side hallway, he took a winding staircase down to under the stage, to a corridor where the ceiling was lower. The noticeable lack of windows and dark, damp walls were more reminiscent of a prison than a theater. One door opened onto a room full of filing cabinets, but as he pulled a few drawers open, they all seemed to be outdated, showing records from almost a decade ago.

He headed back down the hallway, trying to sketch the floor plan into his notebook as best he could. He found another narrow staircase and followed it up, taking it past the ground floor and high enough that he started to get winded. It opened onto a small landing with a single door which, miraculously, was ajar, revealing an empty but richly decorated office behind it.

A wave of hyper-awareness washed over Steve, the feeling of being on the verge of something important.

He entered the room—it had to be Pierce’s office—and started picking up random papers and copying down the information on them as fast as he could, hoping it would be of some use to Peggy. A few minutes passed as he scribbled in his notebook, his internal clock ticking like a bomb. And then, voices on the stairs, footsteps coming up towards him—cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he glanced frantically around the room for somewhere to hide.

His eyes snagged on a wall panel that seemed too tall, wrong in someway. Following his instinct, he pressed on it and was rewarded by the sight of an unlit iron staircase spiraling out of sight into darkness. He jumped inside and pulled the panel shut behind him just as the footsteps reached the landing and entered the room.

Steve heard Pierce enter the room. There was a brief silence, and he stood frozen, heart pounding, holding his breath until the sound came of Pierce sitting down at the desk, and the scratch of a pen on paper. As softly as he could, he made his way down the dark staircase. He was conscious that it had been at least fifteen minutes, and he was long past the point of an acceptable bathroom break. James was surely starting to wonder why he had been gone so long. He hadn’t meant to get this far away from the dining room, but the labyrinthine backstage and warren of hallways used by the employees were much larger than he’d expected.

The first door off of the staircase, a thin crack of light showing around the edges, opened onto Pierce’s private box. The second, what looked to be a sparse, mostly empty bedroom with a piano. The third door opened on to an alley behind the Moulin Rouge. As he looked down the alley, the door closed and locked behind him. His nerves, already ratcheted up, started to feel unbearably tensed, and his throat tightened. He tried to swallow his rising panic. How was he going to get back inside without anyone seeing? He started jogging down the alleyway, turned a corner—and ran smack into James.

“What the—” James exclaimed, reaching out in instinct to catch Steve’s arms and dropping the papers he’d been studying in the process. He stared at Steve with his brow furrowed, taking in his general sweaty, panicked looking state.

“Got lost,” Steve panted, ducking out from under his inquisitive gaze to gather up the papers that had scattered at their feet. James knelt down too, grabbing them out of Steve’s hands before he could get a good look and tucking them into his shirt pocket.

Steve looked around. They were in a small, hidden courtyard just off the main street. The bright lights from the front of the Moulin Rouge were softer here, and the din of people arriving for the night show was muted by the ivy-covered brick. James pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, not looking at Steve.

“I was sitting there alone at the table for so long I figured I might as well come out for a smoke. I assume that’s why you came out here?” he asked, offering them to Steve.

Steve shook his head, thankful he didn’t need to come up with an excuse. “I—I actually just had one so…”

James gave him another skeptical look, and it suddenly hit Steve how differently he was acting now. He was leaning up against the brick wall, his dancer’s posture relaxed, jacket gone, and his black shirt was open at the collar despite the cold. He looked tired.

“I’m sorry about your parents. I shouldn’t have said that, it was rude,” Steve blurted out.

James looked over at him, surprised. “Apology accepted.” He looked away again and took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air.

“I was being rude as well, and I’m sorry. It’s just—I can’t—”

James huffed out a breath, frustrated, and ran his hand through his hair, dislodging his bun. Steve watched as a strand tumbled down and came to rest against the hollow of his throat.

“Listen, Steve,” he said, and his tone was different too, without either the forced sensuality of last night or the stiff politeness from the dining room. “This dinner was a disaster from the beginning—Pier—the guards, the formality.” He sighed. “If we’re going to spend time together I’d rather do something you want to do.”

“Oh.” Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, trying not to act too surprised at how candid James was being. He cast about for a good suggestion, something that seemed reasonable for Steven Grant that wouldn’t also be miserable for Steve Rogers. “Well. There is one thing, actually. I haven’t been to the Louvre yet.”

He hadn’t been able to afford the admission, but James didn’t need to know that.

“The art museum? Ah, right, the painting thing. I assumed that was just something you were telling your father.”

“Well, I haven’t had as much time for painting as I hoped. But I really do love art.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, feeling sheepish for some reason.

A small smile appeared on James’ face. “Well, as it happens, I haven’t been either. I can work it out for tomorrow morning if that sounds good to you.”

“I would...very much enjoy that. Thank you,” Steve said. He knew he was being too sincere, too earnest for his role, but he couldn’t help it. Something about them standing here felt like intermission, like the rules of the show had been temporarily suspended.

Steve caught a glimpse of something behind James, and bent over to pick up one of the papers that had escaped their notice. James reached for it, but not before it caught the light, and Steve saw that it was sheet music, painstakingly hand-written, with a name written on the top next to the empty space where a title would be.

“Did you write this? You write music?” he asked.

James looked uncharacteristically flustered. “Only a little. It’s just a song.”

Steve looked back down at the weathered paper, trying to make out the lyrics, but James pulled it out of his hand.

“It’s nothing. Just something I do in my spare time.” He tucked it away with the others.

“Do you ever perform your music?” Steve knew he was prying, but he couldn’t help it—his curiosity was sparked.  _It could be important for the story_ , he thought, rationalizing his sudden interest, watching James’ hand as he lifted his cigarette and imagining them on a piano. Those long, graceful fingers—

“Not yet...but maybe soon.” James shrugged, his face casual on the surface, but something dark Steve couldn’t grasp lingering just below.

“Anyway,” James said, ignoring Steve’s frown and cutting off the rest of his questions. “The Louvre, tomorrow. I’ll send a messenger tomorrow morning. And Steve—” he paused, biting the corner of his lip. “Call me Bucky. It’s what my friends call me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next morning dawned crisp and bright, frost glittering on the rooftops of Paris as the horse-drawn carriage jolted towards the Louvre.

Steven was tense, Bucky noticed. But squeezing into a tiny carriage with two large, intimidating bodyguards who were doing their best impression of stone statues would have that effect. He’d seen Steve’s dismay at the guards upon entering the carriage, but had just shaken his head as imperceptibly as he could, trying to convey that he had a plan to deal with it.

The carriage came to a stop in front of the museum, and Steve climbed out first, holding out his hand to help Bucky step down. He didn’t let go right away, instead taking Bucky’s arm like he was escorting him as they walked through the massive courtyard. Steve’s eyes widened as he took in the grand façades that stretched out around them. Bucky hadn’t expected the scale of the palace or the detail of the architecture to be so overwhelming, and even he felt a thrill of excitement to be walking through a place where the weight of history could be so clearly felt. It was early enough that the museum was quiet inside, and as they entered Bucky pulled off his coat and handed it to one of the guards. He motioned for Steve to do the same before pulling the guards slightly off to the side.

“Can you two go put these somewhere? And take your time.” Bucky winked at them. They stared at him with identically blank faces. Where did Pierce get these guys, the lumbering henchman factory? “We need some  _alone time._  You know what Pierce said about giving us some space when it’s time for the client’s needs to be fulfilled.”

“Now? It’s 10 am. And we’re in a fuckin’ museum,” one of the bodyguards grumbled.

“Yes, Michel. Now,” Bucky said scathingly. “You’re not even supposed to know about the client’s wishes, so stop being so nosy. It’s between a man and his courtesan. If he wants to fuck in the Louvre that’s what he gets. It’s really none of your business, go get a coffee or something.”

Michel hesitated, the wheels in his head turning ever so slowly.

“If the boss said so,” he said, looking confused. He tugged the arm of the other guard and they headed back outside.

“Thank god that worked,” Bucky muttered, returning to Steve’s side. Pierce had certainly said no such thing about leaving them unattended. But he needed Steve to be more open with him, and he certainly wasn’t going to do it with the guards constantly listening in. A purely mercenary tactic, he told himself, watching Steve’s delighted face as he gazed around.

“Let’s go,” he said to Steve, feeling something strangely like anticipation. He grabbed his hand and hurried them down a side hallway before the guards could realize they’d they’d been played. They took a turn down another corridor, and Bucky found himself laughing, at nothing really.

Steve looked over, surprised.

“You look different,” he said, cocking his head. “Happy.”

Happy? Bucky couldn’t think of the last time he could apply that word to himself. Was he happy in this moment? To be here with Steve, a man he barely knew knew? And a patron, he reminded himself, tamping down his smile. He wouldn’t choose to be at the Louvre of all places, he wouldn’t choose to be wearing a highly impractical ivory silk outfit, and he certainly wouldn’t have chosen for Steve to have caught him with his guard down last night. But here they were, and if he wanted Steve to be honest with him, he had to make an effort as well. For the job.

Steve looked like he was going to say something else, but the hallway suddenly opened up into bright, spacious gallery, and Steve’s mouth fell open as he took in the high, arched glass ceilings and the long, collonaded hall filled with paintings from floor to ceiling. He let go of Bucky’s hand to walk over to the wall and stare up at them, wandering across the floor in a zigzag, dazed as Bucky followed behind. Bucky spared a glance for the paintings too, but his eyes were mostly trained on Steve. He looked polished today, in a fitted, three piece suit, the wool a subtle blend of navy, grey and green, and a navy tie under his high collar that complemented his blue eyes. It looked good on him, but he wore it like it was someone else’s outfit, self-consciously tugging at the collar and sleeves when he thought Bucky wasn’t looking.

“This looks just like Harvard,” Steve said to himself, studying a pastoral landscape with what Bucky thought could only be a look of distaste on his face.

“Why am I getting the feeling that you didn’t like it there?”

Steve laughed. “It was a rough two years. I didn’t quite fit in, to put it nicely. Was a bit of an outcast. I was sick all the time, wanted to read books, cared too much about everything. Got in a lot of fights...lost a lot of fights,” he said, with a lopsided smile over his shoulder at Bucky. “Figured out other ways to win fights without having to use my fists. I was scrawnier back then.”

Bucky automatically filed all this information away in his brain for later. He wouldn’t have thought that golden boy Steve had ever been the loser.

They wandered through the halls, Steve frequently calling him over to point out certain colors, or the use of shadow, or artists that Bucky hadn’t heard of. He was obsessed with the detail on the marble sculptures, standing in front of the Winged Nike with her sheer carved dress for so long that Bucky started working on his compositions in his head to entertain himself. As they entered a different room, Steve actually gasped aloud, and put his hand over his heart.

“ _Liberty Leading the People_ ,” he said reverently, walking over to a massive canvas that took up an entire wall. “Look, Buck, isn’t she magnificent?”

The painting was of a bare-breasted, luminous woman holding the French flag in one hand and a bayonet in the other, leading a group of people over a barricade and across fallen bodies.

“I’ve seen a reproduction of this painting, but seeing it in person...you can feel it, can’t you? Revolution—the ecstasy, the smoke, the blood. No wonder it was kept hidden away from the public for so long. All these different people, the bourgeoisie, the student, the factory worker, the builder—” he pointed them out one by one. Bucky watched his face, lit by something that seemed to come from deep within. “Led by Liberty, fighting together to make a better world. You can see the determination in their eyes, can’t you? The feeling like—like there must be something better, something  _more_ —” He broke off, turning pink, as if suddenly realizing how Bucky was looking at him. “Oh. I get carried away sometimes. By art, and um, politics. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I liked it,” he said, realizing it was true as the words came out of his mouth. “I’ll let you keep looking.”

He found a bench nearby and sat down. What was happening to him? Was he losing his edge? The rapturous look on Steve’s face and his expressive hands moving as he talked had been doing something to him, making his feelings do complicated things inside his chest. Faking those feelings—now that he was familiar with. But this was unsettling.

And he wanted it to happen again.

He sighed, annoyed at himself, and got up to go find Steve, who’d wandered into the next room. Steve was standing in front of a marble sculpture of two people entwined in an embrace, his face dreamy and unfocused. He hadn’t heard Bucky come up, and jumped as Bucky touched his hand.

“It’s Cupid and Psyche,” Steve said. “He’s just awakened her with his kiss. It’s very...sensual.”

There was an awkward pause in which Steve’s eyes slid down to Bucky’s mouth, the word  _sensual_  echoing between them.

“Well, you’re the hopeless romantic here,” Bucky said lightly. “You would know.”

“Wouldn’t  _you_  know? You’re one of the most famous courtesans in Paris.” Steve’s smile was crooked, with a challenge in it.

“All that means is that I’m paid to make men believe what they want to believe. It’s acting.” He kept his face neutral, watching Steve carefully to see if he would react to this. When he didn’t, Bucky turned away and walked to a different sculpture. “It doesn’t have anything to do with love,” he said over his shoulder.

“Love?” Steve said, shadowing him. Angling his body ever so slightly so that he blocked Bucky’s path, he cocked his head infuriatingly. “Who said anything about love?”

“Love is for other people,” Bucky said, slipping around Steve and walking into the next room. “Not me.”

Steve followed him, the smirk dropping off his face. He fixed Bucky with an intense look, not even sparing a glance at the artwork on the walls.

“Why not you?”

“It’s frivolous. It makes people act like fools. Why would I give away everything just for a few moments of happiness? I have more important things to worry about, like having somewhere to sleep and food to eat. How can it be worth the risk?”

He pretended to study a painting, feeling suddenly unable to make eye contact with Steve, positive that the words he was leaving unspoken were just as obvious as the half-truths he was saying, that if he looked over he’d see something he didn’t want to see in Steve’s eyes—pity? empathy? understanding?—and it would cause something irreplaceable to shatter.

Steve didn’t say anything, but Bucky could feel his gaze pinning him like a butterfly in a display case. After a minute, Steve turned to study the painting as well.

“I love the brushstrokes here,” he murmured, leaning in close to the canvas to get a better look. “Have you heard of Rembrandt?”

Bucky shook his head, grateful to be back on a safe topic as Steve’s voice faded into a comforting rumble in the background.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sun was setting by the time they made it back out into the courtyard and started walking back to the Moulin Rouge. A few streaks of pale orange and pink still lingered in the sky, making Bucky think of the paintings Steve had showed him. It was cold, but not bitterly so, and the crisp smell of hearth smoke was on the air.

They’d decided to walk back to the Moulin Rouge, their route taking them along wide, tree-lined boulevards lit with brand-new electric street lamps. Bucky knew he’d have to be back at the theater for the night’s run through soon, but he wasn’t ready to face the consequences of slipping Pierce’s men. Thankfully, the idiot henchmen had actually left their coats at the coat check.  
A comfortable silence had fallen between them as they walked, but Bucky found himself breaking it, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Earlier, when you were talking about the Lady Liberty painting...how did you learn all of that? You seemed so passionate.”

“Well, they certainly don’t teach that at Harvard.” Steve smiled. “My mo—a family member who I was close to taught me everything important I know. My...aunt. She was this tiny, fiery, Socialist lady who never ever gave up. On anyone. Even me.” He laughed ruefully, his breath a small puff of steam in the cold air. “She worked as a liaison during dozens of labor strikes, talking to everyone from coal miners to factory workers to senators, helping them understand each other and find common ground. That was her gift. She believed that all workers, all people, deserve dignity and human rights, no matter how poor or uneducated.”

Steve’s eyes were shining again with that mysterious light that seemed to come from within. Bucky didn’t think he’d ever seen anything like it before, and he couldn’t look away. Steve believed this truth with a purity that Bucky didn’t see very often in his line of work. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to him about something that mattered, let alone something that he felt in his bones was true and important.

“I don’t know much about the labor movement,” he admitted. “But I think so too. When I was young, in Russia...the things people, children had to do to survive—”

He broke off abruptly, Pierce’s presence in his head like a cold, sharp needle. A slip-up like this in front of a patron was going to cost him. He shivered, the wind biting through his coat.

Steve was looking at him with concern, his brows pulled together. Bucky rearranged his face into a smile, but Steve was already reaching inside his coat. From hidden inside the lining, he pulled out a handmade scarf, obviously well-worn and well-loved. He pulled Bucky to a stop and wrapped it gently around his neck, looping it once and then twice. He tucked the ends in and brushed Bucky’s hair away from his face with a tenderness that made Bucky’s heart constrict in a sudden and painful way.

“She made this for me. My aunt,” Steve said, touching the faded red yarn near Bucky’s jaw. “She died a few years ago.”

Bucky remembered Steve’s fumbling apology for Bucky’s loss, he realized with a shock, just twenty four hours ago. How was this man, now looking at Bucky with such soft eyes, the Steve he’d seen all day today, the same person as that careless and thoughtless patron? This man before him knew grief and suffering. He cared about the smallest and lowest of people. He was a good person in a way that simply couldn’t coexist with wealth.

Bucky realized he was staring at Steve, searching his face for something he didn’t know how to name. They were still standing too close together, alone on the deserted street.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, half forgetting what they were talking about.

“Love isn’t always frivolous,” Steve said, with a small smile. “Sometimes it’s this.”

He brought his hand to the scarf again, running his fingers along the neat rows of stitches. Bucky leaned into the contact as Steve’s hand came to rest against his chest.

He wanted to kiss Steve. He wanted it with a sudden powerful, flood of longing that was altogether terrifying. But he hesitated, and then Steve was pulling his hand away. The moment splintered as Steve started walking again. Bucky realized they were nearly at the Moulin Rouge, and night had fallen, the city quiet around them as they walked in silence. And then they were at the entrance to the Moulin Rouge, Steve bidding him goodnight, and he was standing alone on the threshold. A thought appeared in his mind unbidden as he watched Steve walk away, an impossible thought, terrifying, and breathtaking too:

_I think I could love him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're interested!
> 
>  
> 
> [Liberty Leading the People](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liberty_Leading_the_People#/media/File:Eug%C3%A8ne_Delacroix_-_Le_28_Juillet._La_Libert%C3%A9_guidant_le_peuple.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> [Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psyche_Revived_by_Cupid%27s_Kiss#/media/File:Psyche_revived_by_cupid%27s_kiss,_Paris_2_October_2011_002.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> A cool video (!) of Paris in 1900: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NjDclfAFRB4  
> And some more pics of Paris in 1900:https://e2f.com/5530/


	3. Chapter 3

Another red envelope was slipped under Steve’s door early the next morning, the messenger accompanying it with a loud bang on his door to make sure he was awake.

It contained a note, in what he now recognized as Natasha’s odd spiky handwriting, to meet at a nearby café in thirty minutes. He sighed, rubbing his tired eyes and feeling like he’d barely slept. He’d fallen asleep hard the night before after making some notes and eating a quick makeshift dinner standing at his counter, exhausted from the long day. When he pulled his curtains open, yawning, he saw that the sun was already high in the sky, and the muddy streets below busy with carriages. He pulled on another of Natasha’s carefully selected suits—costumes, really, he couldn’t help but think—and headed out into the brisk morning.

When he arrived at the café, he sat down at an empty table and ordered a coffee from one of the white-shirted waiters, waiting for Natasha to show herself. Maybe he would manage to spot her first this time, he thought, scanning the bustling café for her petite figure.

Someone jostled him, sitting down in the table directly behind him with their back to him. He glanced over his shoulder at the blonde woman, doing a double take when he realized it was Natasha, in the black gown and veil of a wealthy widow.

“The suit looks better than I expected,” she said by way of greeting, picking up the menu. “Did you make progress yesterday?”

He followed her lead and picked up the menu so the other patrons wouldn’t see his mouth moving.

Yesterday seemed like a dream. The art had been magnificent, the Louvre everything he’d imagined and more, but his mind kept returning to Bucky.

He slid his notes to Natasha under the table, stalling for time. All he could think about was Bucky’s face as he was looking up at him under the streetlamps, with Steve’s scarf around his neck, the way his hand felt in Steve’s as they ran down the hall, laughing, the softness of his hair when Steve had touched it...

“I think I had a breakthrough with James,” Steve said hesitantly. “Like I told you after the dinner, he’s a completely different person when Pierce’s guards aren’t around. I think he’s ready to make a break with Pierce...it seems like maybe this has been coming for a while. He ditched the guards, on his own accord, and it seems like he’s tired of being used for Pierce’s gain. He’s smart, and he’s creative—he’s so much more than just...” he trailed off, realizing he was supposed to be updating Natasha on Pierce, not gushing about Bucky. He was glad Natasha couldn’t see his face.

“He almost mentioned Pierce once, but other than that he deliberately avoids the topic. I think he owes Pierce something, or thinks he does, and that’s why he’s stayed. He mentioned being on the streets in Russia as a child.” Steve felt slightly dirty, relaying to Natasha something that Bucky hadn’t meant to reveal.

“Interesting,” Natasha said, her face blank as she studied the menu. “Do you think you could convince him to help us? To turn double agent?”

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted truthfully. “It’s difficult to read him. I think it’s a choice he’d have to make on his own.”

“We have three days left, Steve. New Years Eve is almost here, and we have to finish this before then. If James can cross over to our side on his own before that, wonderful, but we need you to speed the process up. You two have established some trust between you, no? Would you say that’s true?”

Steve nodded, frowning. Bucky knew much more about him, the real Steve, than he’d anticipated revealing. And he had a feeling that the reverse was true as well.

“Don’t think of it as breaking that trust. You’re not working against him, you’re working for him. He’s a victim of Pierce more than anyone. You just need to shift his truth to align with ours.”

Steve clenched the menu, his fingers turning white. Something twisted in his gut at the thought of manipulating Bucky.

“Pierce is evil. Pure evil.” Natasha said, tone steely. “Imagine how many more people, children even, we’re putting at risk if we don’t stop him.”

Steve thought back to some of the reports that had been in the file that Peggy had given him, images he wished he could erase from him mind and first-hand accounts that had chilled him to the bone, and shuddered.

“You’re right,” he said, already resolving what he needed to do. “I’ll go over there now. We’re on borrowed time, like you said. Thanks, Natasha.”

“I’ll be nearby,” she said quietly, with a slight nod to him as he stood up and pulled his coat on, and just the faintest hint of a smile from behind her veil.

 

Being at the Moulin Rouge in the morning was a strange feeling, like seeing a finely dressed lady out strolling without her hair and makeup done. In the harsh, bright winter sunlight, the façade was slightly faded and peeling, and as Steve pulled the heavy doors open yet again, the lobby looked garish and cheap in a way that didn’t show in the hazy golden glow of the oil lamps. There was a maid scrubbing the floor, and another polishing one of the gold statues, but they simply glanced at him with tired eyes and then went back to to their work.

He caught the sound of voices coming down a hall, and ducked into one of the staircases that led to the private boxes as they drew nearer. It was two courtesans, in their underthings. The younger one was crying quietly and holding her neck, where Steve could see a glimpse of livid red marks. The other was consoling her, an arm over the girl’s thin shoulders. Faded yellow bruises lined her arms, in the unmistakable pattern of fingerprints. Steve could only hear snatches of their hushed conversation.

_“Look at you...awful men....Zidler would never have let this happen...”_

“ _...Pierce...he lets them.._.” Steve made out through hiccoughing breaths. The older girl shushed her, looking around the lobby with wide, fearful eyes. They drew closer to Steve’s hiding spot.

_“You know you can’t say things like that...he has eyes and ears everywhere.”_

They hurried past Steve and out of the lobby. Steve let out the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. What he had heard was well in line with Pierce’s modus operandi. Allowing crueler, more depraved things to be happening to the courtesans behind closed doors, until girls simply disappeared.

Faint sounds of music drifted toward him from the ballroom, and he ducked into one of the private boxes, surprised to find it unlocked. He peeked out from behind the partially drawn curtain to see the dancers running through a complex routine onstage, with the orchestra accompanying them.

“No, no, no, no!” A man standing at the foot of the stage abruptly shouted, stopping the music. “I have told you a million times, you start on the downbeat! This show needs to be fucking perfect for New Years!”

The man, apparently the choreographer, started railing on individual dancers for their sloppy footwork, screaming in their faces in a violent way that made Steve’s blood instantly boil. Most of the dancers just stood frozen in their spots, their eyes on the floor, but Steve noticed a few of them turning pinched, nervous faces to look towards his box. Or not necessarily his box, but next to it. A glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye made him look over, and he realized he was in the box directly next to Pierce’s, and Pierce was sitting there, just feet away from him.

He retreated behind the curtain, his heart suddenly pounding. Pierce had been turned away from him, towards the stage, so Steve didn’t think he’d been seen. He pressed his hand over his heart, feeling the beat through his shirt, and willed himself to breathe slowly and quietly.

He slipped further into the gloom of the box, and found a spot where he could see Pierce’s profile through a gap in the curtains. Pierce lifted a hand with a bored gesture, and the choreographer started pushing the dancers offstage, yelling for the next act in the lineup. There was a pause, and Steve watched Pierce, taking in the coiled repose of his body, his glittering pocket watch, the expensively tailored suit. And then, soft piano music came from the stage, a haunting melody that made the hair on the back of Steve’s neck rise, snapping his attention to the stage.

 

                                                        

 

_“Never knew….I could feel like this...”_

It was Bucky. Alone on the stage, seated at the piano. He looked so small, Steve thought. His eyes were closed and his face as he sang was almost unbearably sad.

_“...like I’ve never seen the sky before…”_

He looked like a different person, with his hair braided back loosely, dressed in a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His long fingers drifted over the keys gracefully, almost intimately, like they were old friends. The string section of the orchestra joined in with a soft swell, and the room was silent, even the dancers transfixed.

_“Seasons may change...winter to spring...”_

He didn’t sound like the singer who’d performed in front of the Moulin Rouge with such dazzling, sultry confidence. His voice was a little hesitant, a little raw, and something about it, combined with the pull of the cellos and the longing on Bucky’s face, was so unexpectedly beautiful that it made sudden tears prick Steve’s eyes.

“Stop.”

A voice rang out from next to Steve, cutting sharply across the music just as it was rising to a crescendo. The orchestra stuttered to a stop, and Bucky’s hands fell abruptly off of the keys with a dissonant final note that hung in the air. He didn’t look up from the piano.

“James, to my box, now. Next act, please,” Pierce called.

Dancers began to move into positions, and Steve watched as Bucky stood up robotically and walked off the stage. A minute later, he heard the door of the box open and shut.

“Jamie,” he heard Pierce say with surprising warmth that nonetheless sent a cold shiver down Steve’s spine. “Sit down.”

Steve shifted so that he could see a sliver of Bucky through the crack. He was facing Steve, while Pierce’s back was to him.

“Jamie, you know I only want what’s best for you, right?” Pierce sighed, his tone deeply patronizing in a way that instantly made Steve’s hackles rise. “I’m afraid you’re not going to be performing your song for New Years.”

Bucky looked up, his eyebrows pulling together. “But—you said, you promised—”

Pierce cut him off. “Of course I  _want_  to give you this chance. You know how much I support you. But it wasn’t a promise. It was an agreement, with conditions. You had to earn the right to perform your song, and you just haven’t held up your end of the bargain, now have you?”

“I don’t understand, I’ve told you everything about Steven Grant that I know. I’ve been trying my best, but he’s...different. More difficult than the other patrons.”

“Unfortunately for both of us, right now your best is just not enough. You haven’t given me anything useful about him. I need something good, something we can use to get his family to finance our move to America. And then there’s what you did yesterday, going off alone like that.” Pierce shifted in his seat, leaning in towards Bucky. “I thought I could trust you. After all our years together, all I’ve invested in you, it hurts me when you do something like that.”

The confusion on Bucky’s face made Steve dig his fingernails into his palms. “I’m sorry, I needed him to be more open, I was just doing what I thought was best—”

“You don’t always know what’s best, though. I do. And that’s why I’m running the Moulin Rouge—and you’re a courtesan.”

“Yes,” Bucky said, his voice rising in frustration. “But you said after Steven Grant, you’d consider letting me be a partner, you said he would be my last patron, that I could focus on music and we’d be business partners.”

“I said he  _could_  be your last patron.  _If_  you delivered. But you’re not delivering.”

Bucky shook his head angrily, his eyes fixed on Pierce. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Pierce clicked his tongue. “I thought you knew best, Jamie. I’m not going to tell you what to do when you’re the expert here.”

“No, I’m sorry, just tell me,” Bucky said, a note of desperation entering his voice. “I just want to perform my song, that’s all. I’ll do whatever you think is best.”

Pierce sighed again, like the conversation was starting to bore him, and looked away from Bucky and out at the stage. “Are you sure your song is even ready to perform? It’s nice, but….”

“But what?” Bucky said sharply, the frustration boiling over as his body went taut like he was about to stand up.

Quick as a whip, Pierce slapped him across the face. Steve instantly went cold with fury, fighting the urge to do something, anything, as he watched Bucky raise his hand to his cheek, his face crumpling.

“Now don’t get defensive,” Pierce said gently, like he was speaking to a small child. “You’ve always been so dramatic. You know how much I believe in your talent. All these years spent making you a star. No one else has ever seen your potential like I have. You’re my diamond.”

Steve watched Bucky’s mask come down, just like he’d seen before, the anger on his face suddenly replaced by emptiness.

“I know. Thank you.”

“This hurts me as much as it hurts you.”

Bucky stared blankly at a point behind Pierce’s head, but his fists were clenched tight. Pierce dismissed him with another wave of his hand and Steve turned away from the crack in the curtain, feeling sick to his stomach.

It was clear that Bucky and Pierce were on the verge of some kind of breaking point—they wouldn’t even be discussing Bucky’s other career options unless he’d been hounding Pierce about it for a while. But Steve didn’t believe for a second that there was any truth to Pierce’s promises of letting him do something else, whether it was a career in music or anything outside Pierce’s control. Bucky was too valuable of an asset for that.

Natasha was right—he had to make Bucky see the truth about Pierce before it was too late for him. The thought of what might happen to Bucky if he didn’t—he couldn’t even think about that right now.

Steve slipped out of the box, his mind racing. As he was crossing the lobby, he saw a flash of white turning the corner—Bucky, hurrying down the hall. Steve hesitated, aware that he should go discuss what he’d learned with Natasha. But the hesitation lasted only a moment before he rushed after Bucky instead, compelled by something stronger than rational thought to go to him.

He was taking the same hallway he’d been led down on his first night at the Moulin Rouge, and he followed his memory to the door to Bucky’s lavish suite. It was ajar, and he pushed it open tentatively, feeling like he should call out or knock—but the room was empty.

Steve had a strange sense of deja vu, looking at the extravagant bed, perfectly made, with its dozens of pillows arranged exactly as they had been when he’d come for his private appointment. He looked around for any sign of Bucky, and spotted a wall panel out of place. There was a glimpse of plain white wall behind it, incongruous in the overly decorated bedroom.  _God, this place and it’s fucking hidden doors_ , Steve thought as he made his way over to it. He pushed it open, and in a split second, his stomach dropping, recognized it as the room from Pierce’s secret passageway. And Bucky was standing over the piano, sheet music strewn across the floor. His face was white with rage.

“Buck—” Steve said, reaching out for him thoughtlessly, intent only on how he wanted to comfort him.

Bucky whipped around so fast that the piano bench toppled over.

“Steve—what are you doing here—you shouldn’t be here—” he said, panicking, his hands pushing Steve away. His eyes were red, darting behind Steve frantically.

“This is your room?” Steve said, the words tumbling out, feeling like the wrong thing to say even as he said them. He suddenly felt very slow taking in the barren, windowless servant’s quarters.

“Yes, Steve,” Bucky hissed, rounding on him. “What did you think—that I actually slept in that ridiculous bed? You think I just lounge around in lingerie drinking champagne when I’m not with you? It’s a fucking  _set_! All of it, the room, the outfit, the makeup. It’s all fake, everything in this fucking place is fake.”

His fists were clenched, and for a second Steve thought he might punch him. But instead Bucky covered his face with his hands, his chest heaving.

Steve pulled Bucky into his chest and wrapped his arms around him. He felt Bucky resist for a second, and then melt into him, tucking his face into Steve’s shoulder.

His breathing slowed to match Steve’s, and Steve slowly moved backwards to sit down on the small bed, pulling Bucky down with him. Steve traced circles on his back like he could remember his mother doing, and let him cry, his sobs almost silent. He looked around the room again, taking in the details this time—the warped piano, the thin blanket, the door panel in the wall, with no way to open it from this side, that led to the staircase. This place didn’t have anything of Bucky in it. It was completely devoid of any joy, any life or memories. Except—as he shifted on the bed to pull Bucky in closer, he saw a single corner of red, peeking out from under the pillow.

It was Steve’s scarf, neatly folded into a square, hidden away.  _Oh_ , he realized, everything becoming clear. _I’m not finishing this job without him_. That was the only way this ended.

After a few minutes, Bucky pulled back, and Steve handed him his handkerchief. Bucky looked like a mess, red and splotchy, but Steve just held Bucky’s face in his hands, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. He looked so different than what he’d let Steve see before. His shoulder and neck were damp with tears, but he didn't even care. He just wanted Bucky away from the empty comfort of the Moulin Rouge and even further away from Pierce’s insidious influence. And if the farthest they could get at that moment was Steve’s apartment a few streets away—well, anywhere was better than here.

“We’re leaving,” Steve said.

He took off his coat and draped it over Bucky, who didn’t respond, but let Steve pull him up by the hand and lead him out of the Moulin Rouge, down the alleyways of Montmartre and back to Steve’s apartment.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Bucky woke up on top of an unfamiliar bed, feeling hollowed out, his head heavy and dull. He was disoriented for a moment in the dim light, before realizing that it was because the afternoon had waned while he’d slept. He looked around at the simple studio apartment, and his eyes fell on familiar golden hair at the small kitchen table. Steve was scribbling on a piece of paper with a scowl on his face. He finished writing, blew on it for a second, and then folded and sealed it closed with wax, leaving it on the table. He registered Bucky’s movement as he sat up and looked over, the scowl melting into a smile.

“Hey,” he said, coming over to sit on the end of the bed. Bucky sat up. “You just fell asleep as soon as we got here. I turned around to make you some tea and you were out.”

Bucky rubbed his face, wincing as he grazed the tender spot on his cheekbone. The events of the day came oozing slowly back to him like a bad dream. Could he please just go back to sleep and forget about it all? His song, the conversation with Pierce, screaming at Steve, crying on Steve—

He groaned.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that, I was just—well, you were there and I was...and the crying—” he looked at the large, crusty spot on the shoulder of Steve’s shirt and winced.

“God,” he muttered, embarrassed. And, if he was being honest with himself, a bit tender about the way that Steve had held him, the memory of it feeling like freshly healed skin.

Steve looked down at his shirt like he was just now noticing it. He stood up and started unbuttoning it, walking over to an armoire that was filled with three or four nice, brand new looking outfits hanging up, and a variety of shabby looking, faded clothes folded on the shelves. Bucky didn’t mean to take note of the incongruence—didn’t want to think about it—but filed it away as second nature.

Steve pulled out a faded white button up shirt and a vest. Bucky caught a glimpse of the long lines of his back and the dimples at the base of his spine. He looked away, feeling like the intimacy of being here, on Steve’s bed, in his apartment, wasn’t anything he deserved.

“Buck...?” Steve was holding out a sweater to him. “I thought you might want to change too.”

Bucky took the sweater and laid it out carefully on the bed, touching the thick wool, worn down so soft from many years of use. It was hand-knitted, like the scarf, in a deep charcoal grey. He pulled it on and there was something about it, the piney, earthy smell or the obvious love it had been made with that made him instantly feel better.

Steve was looking at him with a half-smile that was a little sad.

“It looks good on you.” He turned and walked over to the tiny galley kitchen. “She would have liked you,” he said, his voice too casual as he pulled out a French press, coffee, and two cups from one of the cupboards.

Bucky didn’t need to ask for clarification about who he was thinking of, and he didn’t think Steve wanted to say anything more about it from the tight set of his shoulders. He took the opportunity while Steve was preparing the coffee to wash his face in his small washbasin and attempt to finger comb his hair back into a loose braid to one side, looking around the apartment as he did. It was was simple and cozy, with gently sloped wood ceilings. It had the look of having recently been tidied, probably while he’d been sleeping, but the whole thing was fastidiously empty of anything personal. There were some few-days-old flowers on the table, a handful of stacked boxes in the corner, but no papers left out on the desk, nothing on the whitewashed walls beyond a few cut out newspaper photos of New York City.

Bucky sat down at the table gingerly and watched Steve, trying to align his thoughts. He knew Steve was lying—about what and how much, he didn’t know.

He hadn’t told Pierce most of what he’d learned about Steve, and Pierce, in turn, knew Bucky was lying—a tangled web indeed. But what did Pierce care that Steve was an art lover, or had a dead aunt who taught him about Socialism? The type of information that Pierce was after was much more sordid—the wormy, rotten cores of weak men he could exploit. Steve simply didn’t fit the bill. He wouldn’t be their in. Bucky had known that for a while now. On the other hand, Steve was his out. Pierce had made that clear. Which left Bucky at an impasse with limited options. Make something up to tell Pierce and buy some time for himself? Dig until he found something Pierce would accept?

He thought of prying Steve open, manipulating him with alcohol and sexual favors until he wouldn’t even remember whatever filth came out of his mouth, and the thought was like running up against a brick wall. No. There had to be another option.

“I heard your song,” Steve said, derailing Bucky’s train of thought. He set the cups of coffee on the tiny table and sat down across from Bucky, biting his lip. “I hope the coffee is okay. I gave you the non-chipped cup, it’s not very fancy but it came with the apartment. I know you’re probably wondering why I’m not staying in a nicer place—”

“You heard my song?” Bucky repeated, bypassing the rest of Steve’s nervous rambling.

Steve nodded. “I came to find you and caught a bit of the rehearsal. I know we didn’t have anything scheduled, but I just wanted to see you. And the song—the song was beautiful. Even just the bit I heard...it moved me.”

His eyes met Bucky’s steadily, and Bucky saw the truth in them.

“It’s not finished,” he said, looking away. “I’m still trying to get the lyrics right.”

“Bucky, I...” Steve swallowed. “I think that we both know that neither of us has been entirely truthful.”

Whatever Bucky had thought Steve might say, he hadn’t been expecting that.

“I trust you,” Steve said, placing his hand on top of Bucky’s. “If you can trust me, a little bit, I think we can help each other.”

“How can you trust me?” he asked, frustrated by Steve’s guilelessness and pulling his hand out from under Steve’s. “You don’t even know me. I told you—I warned you—everything about me is a performance. I’ve been performing for so long that I don’t even know the difference anymore.”

He sighed, feeling utterly drained.

“I just...I just want to be done,” he said, not realizing the words were true until he spoke them.

“I know what you said, Bucky,” Steve began again, slowly, as if worried about scaring him off. “But when I saw you sing today, all alone on the stage...it was so different from everything at the Moulin Rouge. All the costumes and lights and glamour, but underneath, there’s nothing, is there? But your song was the opposite. I felt like everything else was stripped away and I  _saw_  you. It wasn’t a performance, it was just you.”

Steve took his hand again, holding it between both of his. “I said I hadn’t been entirely truthful with you. I think we’re both dealing with something bigger than just us. There are people higher up than me who are relying on me, and I think it could be the same for you.”

Bucky nodded. He could feel Pierce’s presence in his head, warning him that he could ruin everything they’d worked for with his pointless  _feelings_ , asking if he really was stupid enough to believe that a good man like this would risk himself for someone like Bucky.

“I’m telling you this because I care about you, and I want to help you,” Steve said. There was a plea in his voice.

“You’re right,” Bucky said, flatly, giving in to the temptation to speak honestly to Steve, but feeling the part of him that had helped him survive this long doing its best to stop him even as he did so. He shoved that voice down. “I’m no one. There’s someone who I report to, about you, and about the other patrons.”

“Alexander Pierce.” There was a dark note in Steve’s voice. The sound of his name in Steve’s mouth was like a discordant chord, sending Bucky into defense like an involuntary reflex.

“He’s all I have, Steve.” Bucky said, willing Steve to understand. “He took me off the streets when I was just a kid, and gave me a place to sleep, food to eat, an education. He gave me music. Where would I be without him? I owe him everything.”

“You don’t owe him anything, Bucky,” Steve said, his face drawn like he was in pain. “He doesn’t love you. He’s using you.”

“He wants what’s best for me!” Bucky said, pushing his chair back and standing up. “I’m nothing without him.”

Steve ran his hands through his hair, looking distraught. “Listen to yourself! Can you hear what you’re saying? You don’t even sound like you believe it, it’s like his words are coming out of your mouth. None of that is true, I know you know it’s not right!”

Bucky shook his head frantically, breathing fast. He walked over to the window so he wouldn’t have to look at Steve. Confusion and anger and mistrust roiled inside of him, like a toxic soup. Steve’s face, horrified like Bucky was speaking in tongues, his pleading voice—they grated painfully against something inside him. He looked out the window to see a perfect view of the the Moulin Rouge’s familiar windmill and laughed helplessly.

“I’m not naive. I know Pierce isn’t a good person.” His voice faded into a whisper. “But what if he’s right about me? What if I rip out everything inside of me that he created, and there’s nothing left?”

Steve was silent for a minute behind him, but he got up and walked to Bucky, hesitantly placing a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s been a long day,” he said.

Bucky turned around to face him. God, his face was so gentle. The anger evaporated, and all Bucky knew was that no one had ever looked at him like that.

“I don’t want to go back tonight. It’s my night off but...can I just...”

Steve nodded, a small smile creasing his eyes. “Stay with me.”

Bucky let out a breath, trying to release some of the coiled tension. The ugly, conflicting knot of feelings in his chest he put away, to be examined later. He leaned into Steve’s hand until gravity let him come to rest against Steve’s chest, tucking his chin into the crook of his neck. Steve’s arms encircled him again, and he let himself be held.

“I could really use some wine right now,” he said, his voice muffled, after a few minutes.

He felt Steve’s laugh more than heard it, rumbling through his chest. Then he was pulling away, and Bucky was adrift for a moment, like the ground wasn’t exactly where he’d left it before.

Steve returned with two more mismatched teacups. He handed one to Bucky with a smile and beckoned him over to the other wall, where Bucky hadn’t noticed that curtains were hiding a pair of peeling French doors.

“It’s the reason I rented this place,” Steve said, pulling them open. “There’s not even enough of a balcony for a chair to sit on and I know it’s freezing outside, but that view…it’s just so Paris, you know? I couldn’t resist.”

He grabbed his overcoat off of the back of the chair and handed it to Bucky, pulling another thick sweater out of the armoire for himself. Sitting down on the narrow balcony, they let their legs dangle out through the iron railings. The sun had set without Bucky noticing, and the clouds hung low in the dark sky, swollen with snow. But the cold air felt bracing rather than harsh. He took a deep breath, feeling the ache in his lungs, and looked out over the dark city. The Moulin Rouge was hidden from view, and they were looking down on Montmartre, the narrow, winding streets lit by the hazy glow coming from the windows of tall, pinched-together houses.

A comfortable silence fell over them again and they drank the bottle of wine, and then started another one, letting it warm them from the inside. Bucky was warm under Steve’s coat, with Steve’s arm around him, keeping him close. The alcohol helped his insides unknot for the first time in days, and he felt something flutter in his chest every time he snuck a glance at Steve’s profile in the moonlight. A sudden burst of music drifted in from the Moulin Rouge, and they looked at each other and laughed, recognizing the courtesan’s choice song where Bucky would normally choose a partner to open the floor with. Steve’s cheeks were flushed from the wine, and his eyelids were a little heavier than usual. How had Bucky never noticed how long his eyelashes were before?

“I think I should get a redo dance,” Bucky said, sitting up straighter and facing Steve, the street below tilting a little as he did so. “Since you turned me down the first time. That was very rude, by the way.”

“Rude?” Steve laughed. “How about you putting me on the spot in front of the whole crowd?”

“Hmph,” Bucky huffed, crossing his arms. “I was just following protocol.”

Steve smirked. “Oh, protocol? Is that what you guys call it?”

“Yes, that’s what I call it when I dazzle one lucky man with a dance, and then show him the best night of his life later in my room. But you, Steve, turned me down a second time! It really hurt my feelings.”

Bucky let his lower lip protrude just a tiny bit in a pout, feeling satisfied when he saw Steve’s eyes go to his mouth. Satisfaction and, to his surprise, a jolt of arousal.

Steve leaned in, dangerously close now. He licked his lips.

“I could make it up to you,” he said, his voice low.

“Oh?” Bucky’s voice was more breathy than he’d intended it to be, with the heat of Steve’s body radiating towards him, making his face suddenly go hot.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand and pulled him up, wrapping his other arm around Bucky’s waist in one swift movement so they were standing pressed together on the narrow floor of the balcony. The music drifting in on the still night air was faint, but Steve found the melody enough to sway gently from side to side.

“See, I’m not so tense now, am I?”

Bucky laughed, and the sound of it make Steve’s face light up in a way that set something aflame in Bucky’s stomach, something deep inside him that he didn’t even know was flammable. Their eyes locked together, and there was a sudden magnetism in the space between them, a barely perceptible shift.

“Can I kiss you?” Steve whispered, tilting Bucky’s face up to his.

Their lips brushed together, and Bucky closed the distance between them. Steve’s lips were soft, his hand threading into Bucky’s hair to cup the back of his neck, and he pulled their bodies flush against one another with his hand on Bucky’s lower back.

He kissed Bucky like no one had ever kissed him—not to consume him or own him or take from him, but like he was giving something back. The gentleness of Steve’s mouth made him ache, made him feel like something inside himself was cracking open and spilling out, watering parched soil. He let himself touch Steve’s jaw, run his fingers softly along the line of his cheekbone and down to his neck, where his pulse beat strong and steady against the tips of Bucky’s fingers. They kissed, standing there in the candlelight, the music from the Moulin Rouge drifting in on the cold night air, until a sudden gust of wind banged one the french doors. They both jumped, and Steve pulled away, and reached behind him to steady it.

He smiled at Bucky with heavy, soft eyes, his lips pink and swollen. He stepped forward again and Bucky leaned in to bite his bottom lip gently, sucking it a little. Steve’s knees seemed to go a little weak, and he leaned harder into Bucky so that he was pressed to the iron railing, sliding his thigh in between Bucky’s and deepening the kiss, the taste of wine from his tongue meeting Bucky’s.

Bucky felt like the wax dripping down the sides of the candles on the table, melty and pliable from the wine. Steve’s hands were cold as they slipped under his shirt, and his brain went a little fizzy as a cold finger brushed his nipple. He gasped a little, suddenly aware of his growing hardness as he rubbed against Steve’s leg. He could feel Steve’s cock against his leg as well, and part of his brain detached itself from the current situation to wonder why Steve’s hands weren’t wandering south yet. Should he be the one to make the move? Is that what Steve was expecting? He moved his mouth to his jawline, letting his fingers play along the top of Steve’s pants, until his lips touched a spot just under the curve of Steve’s jaw that made Steve arch his hips. Bucky did it again, and Steve moaned softly. Bucky liked that noise, and he liked making Steve make it. He mentally took note of the spot. It was time to get down to business.

He slowly walked Steve backwards, in through the french doors and towards the bed, kissing his way down to Steve’s neck and along his shoulder until Steve’s knees bumped the frame.

Steve looked behind him, raising his eyebrows, and then at Bucky, who summoned his best seduction smile from his arsenal. This did not have the effect he expected on Steve, whose eyebrows snapped together. His mouth turned down, his face slightly guilty as he pushed Bucky away gently from where he was trying to nibble on Steve’s earlobe.

“You know you don’t have to seduce me, don’t you?” he asked, holding Bucky at arms length and looking into his eyes.

“This is just—what goes next, Steve.” Bucky said, confused.

The furrow between Steve’s eyebrows only deepened at that. “I don’t want this to be a  _transaction_. Just because...of what happened today, I wouldn’t want you to do this because you feel like you should, or have to.” He paused, slipping his hand from Bucky’s shoulder to cup his cheek instead. “I would never want that.”

“That’s not…” Bucky started to deny it, but trailed off, realizing Steve was right. He hadn’t even realized as he’d been slipping into James, discarding Bucky like a broken shell on the floor.

He was coming at this exactly like he would with one of his clients, already formulating a game plan in his head, like Steve’s body was a series of locks to pick. Which wasn’t right, it wasn’t what Steve deserved after he’d been kind to Bucky, not trying to indebt Bucky to him but simply because that was kind of person he was.

Steve’s words from earlier came back to him: “I care about you.” Maybe it was time Bucky believed that could be possible. He squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned his forehead against Steve’s.

Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist. “Let’s get some rest,” he whispered, leaning in and kissing him again. He blew out the candles and pulled off his extra sweater, exchanging his pants for a pair of softer ones and tossing Bucky a pair as well. Bucky hesitated, waiting for Steve to pick a side of the bed, and then sat down stiffly, feeling wrong-footed and out of his depth.

“It’s okay,” Steve said with a smile. “Come on.” He pulled Bucky’s hand until he lay down.

“You just want us to lay here next to each other?” Bucky asked skeptically.

“Mmhmm,” Steve said, already sounding sleepy.

He never shared a bed with his patrons, beyond the obvious of course. Once they were out, he went back to his own room behind the hidden panel, and let them be woken up by staff early the next morning. It preserved an air of mystery. No one wanted to see him drooling on the pillow, let alone with puffy eyes and messy hair the next morning. That wasn’t what they paid for.

Bucky lay awkwardly on his back, trying not to breathe too loud in the darkness. He peeked over at Steve. He could see that Steve’s eyes were closed in the faint moonlight, so Bucky let his eyes linger on the slope of his nose, on that little bump that, he realized, he hadn’t got the chance to run his fingers over before. Steve’s mouth quirked up at the corner as Bucky traced the shape of his lips with his eyes.

“Stop staring at me so loud,” Steve said, with his eyes still closed. He paused. “I could hold you, if you want.” His voice was deceptively casual.

“That sounds nice,” Bucky said. His voice wavered a little, and he squeezed his eyes shut in the dark, hoping Steve hadn’t noticed.

Steve’s arm slid around his waist, fingers playing with the tip of Bucky’s braid, and he felt the solid, grounding presence of Steve’s body against his back as he turned onto his side. He fought back a smile in the dark and closed his eyes, letting himself fall now that Steve was there to catch him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of this chapter gets steamy, folks, and the Action comes to you courtesy of   
> [Charlotte/@odetteandodile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/odetteandodile/pseuds/odetteandodile), who acted as my 'smutsmith' for this fic and knocked it out of the park. I think you'll like it. ;) Go check out her fics as well!

Bucky woke up with a jolt the next morning, his eyes snapping open at the unfamiliar sensation of someone else’s body against his.

Steve was on his back now, breathing through his mouth with a slight wheeze, and Bucky was tucked against his chest, holding onto Steve’s torso as if for dear life. He slowly untangled himself, trying not to wake Steve, and stood up, putting back on his clothes from the day before.

It was early, the sun barely rising, but he felt the tug of the Moulin Rouge. It was early enough that Pierce wouldn’t notice he’d been gone if he snuck back in now. He needed to be alone, to sort through these feelings and make a plan. There had to be a way out of this mess if he could just be logical about it.

He took one last look at Steve, chewing on his lip. Steve’s golden hair was sticking up every which way, and the morning light illuminated a faint dusting of freckles across his nose. They’d no doubt get more pronounced in the summer, Bucky thought, imagining Steve sunburnt and grinning, maybe sitting across from him in a rowboat.

He shook off the daydream just as Summer Steve leaned in to kiss him, his mouth tasting of strawberries.  _Stop it_ , he thought to himself savagely. There was no world in which that daydream would happen. Don’t dwell on things you can’t have.

He shut the door behind him as quietly as he could, and hurried down the cold, empty streets.

 

As he opened the door to his suite, he let out a sigh of relief that no one was up yet to see him sneaking around. He hadn’t even seen any of the cleaning staff, thank god. He pushed open the panel to his bedroom, wondering if he had time to draw a bath before Pierce checked in—

“Jamie.”

His breath caught in his throat. Pierce was sitting on his bed like Bucky’s thoughts had summoned him out of thin air. Pierce was in a crisp suit despite the early hour, dignified in the middle of the ugly state Bucky had left his room in.

Bucky stood frozen in the doorway as Pierce’s eyes flicked up and down his rumpled, day-old clothes and messy hair. Could Pierce sense Steve on him? Smell his bed or his sweater, or the wine they’d drunk? Did Pierce know somehow that they’d danced? Was he being crazy?

“Did you have a nice night?” Pierce asked, his voice pleasant.

Bucky bent down, letting his hair hide his face, and started picking up the sheet music that was scattered across the floor. He stalled for time, shuffling the papers into a neat stack before standing up and schooling his face into apathy.

“I was with Steven Grant. He had some special requests that could only be fulfilled at his own apartment. I was just going to come find you to report on him after I’d cleaned up.”

Pierce motioned for him to go on.

“I don’t think there’s anything there to get,” Bucky began, opting for the closest thing to a truth he could offer Pierce without exposing himself entirely and hoping it would be enough to convince him. “I asked him everything I could think of about his family, and it sounds like they’re just boring, law-abiding Protestants. I don’t think they’re our in for America. Maybe you can find a different patron for that. We only just got to Paris, what’s the rush?” He smiled at Pierce and walked over to the piano to place the music on the stand. “You can talk to Steve yourself if you want, but I think it would be a waste of your time. I know how busy you are right now.”

“And our bargain?” Pierce asked, giving nothing away with his tone. “Would you consider it upheld?”

Bucky hesitated, unsure of what the correct answer was. He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance.  
Pierce’s face remained still on the surface, but something dark moved underneath, and Bucky knew he’d miscalculated somehow.

“The New Years Eve show. Your big debut,” he said, smiling, with a wave of his hand like a marquee. “That was the most important thing in the world to you three days ago. You’ve been talking about it for months.” He got up and strolled to the piano until he was inches away from Bucky and leaned in, lowering his voice. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Jamie?”

Bucky shook his head, his eyes on the floor.

“I’ve always known you better than yourself,” Pierce said, his voice gentle. “I can tell when your priorities have changed. What is it about ‘Steve’ that’s made you decide there’s something more important than performing your song? Is there something about him that you’re hiding from me?”

A slightly hysterical laugh escaped Bucky’s lips. “The kind of secrets you’re looking for—he’s simply not capable.” Bucky shook his head, adding what he knew was the truth of it, no matter how much he would have doubted such a thing only days ago. “He’s really, truly, a good person.”

“Oh, Jamie!” Pierce said, a condescending smile spreading slowly across his face as he took in Bucky’s expression. He leaned back and put his hands on his hips like he was imitating a schoolteacher.

“Are you really so naive? I thought you were better than that. You’ve always been smarter than the girls downstairs who throw themselves away just for a golden haired, blue eyed charmer. I never thought you’d be so silly as to develop an infatuation with a customer. A patron, no less. There’s no such thing as a man with no secrets—and you of all people should know that. ” He sighed. “Well, I’m sure these...emotions will pass. But I suppose this might be a sign it’s time to consider moving you out of a courtesan role. Not right away, in fact, I’m going to need your special touch more than ever next year during such an important time for the Moulin Rouge. But I’d like for you to start training your replacement. It takes years to perfect someone, so we have to start early.”

Bucky nodded slowly, looking away from Pierce and straightening the sheets of music on the piano. This was the first time Pierce had mentioned a replacement, and the thought of  _that_ —even more than the thought of another year at this work—occurring to him for the first time, sent a wave of nausea and dizziness over him as Pierce continued talking.

“I’d like for you to pick him out, as soon as all this New Years nonsense is over. Go down to the docks and find me a new diamond. You remember what it was like, the urchins will be climbing over themselves like rats to come with you once they hear there’s food and a bed. But I need you to find someone truly special, like you.”

Bucky fought down the revulsion rising in his stomach and managed a smile. Pierce set his hand on Bucky’s shoulder and he flinched away, unused to casual contact from Pierce. He gripped his shoulder tighter and looked into Bucky’s eyes.

“We’re going to be partners. This is a very special opportunity for you. One day maybe you’ll even take my place. I’ll let you perform your little song tomorrow night, but after that I’ll need you by my side. Running my empire with me—now that’s a  _real_  future. It’s what I’ve created you for.”

Pierce squeezed his shoulder, and let go. Bucky let his gaze drop to the floor again, standing woodenly as Pierce straightened his jacket.

“Wash your face. We have rehearsal all day and you can rest tonight. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.” And with that he was gone, closing the panel in the wall behind him.

Bucky sat down heavily on the bed and dropped his face in his hands. Pierce’s words about training a replacement and taking Pierce’s place wound around in his brain like tangled threads, knotting tighter and tighter as everything suddenly became horrifyingly clear. There was no out for Bucky. There would never be one as long as Pierce lived.

Bucky thought of himself, a dirty street rat, promised by the handsome blond man that he would be adored, that he would be special. The image shifted so it was Bucky talking to a child, telling him that he was meant for great things, and shifted again, to Bucky nodding along with Pierce, doing whatever he was asked because it was all Pierce said he was good for, for the rest of his life, being fed the same lies as a gullible child, until Bucky  _was_  Pierce, slapping a blank faced man across the face in a dark theater box, the images cycling faster and faster through more performances, more theaters, more cities, more years—

He yanked his pillow up and screamed into it. He was poisoned, tainted by Pierce’s lies and manipulations. How had it taken him this long to see it? He let himself fall onto his back with the pillow still over his face, breathing heavily. His head was resting on something soft, and he looked over to see Steve’s red scarf.

Steve was right. Steve was fucking right, of course. Pierce didn’t care about him, and he never had. He thought of the words he’d said last night, defending Pierce even when he knew they weren’t true, when he had known for years now. Pierce had only given Bucky as much as he could threaten to take away again. He didn’t want what was best for Bucky, because to him Bucky was nothing but a tool, an inanimate object with no free will. Everything he said was a lie wrapped in fear and guilt and doubt, like a bitter pill that Bucky kept taking even after he knew it was making him sick.

He draped the scarf over his face and breathed in Steve’s comforting smell. “ _What if there’s nothing left?_ ” he’d asked last night, the words feeling like he had to tear them out from somewhere deep inside, like rotten, snarled roots.

Steve thought he had worth. Steve treated him like someone who mattered, someone who had his own agency. He treated him like he was smart, he had opinions and thoughts that actually mattered. And he wanted to kiss him. Clearly wanted to do other things with him too, even if he hadn’t acted on it yet. Pierce didn’t know Steve. But he knows you.

Bucky had to talk to Steve. He had to tell him about Pierce—the truth this time. Steve would know what to do. There was a knock on his door and he sat up, hastily stuffing the scarf behind him.

“30 minutes!” came a voice through the door.

Bucky called out to acknowledge them, waiting for the footsteps to recede before he pulled the scarf back out and neatly folded it, placing it back under his pillow and taking a deep breath to steady himself. He had a long day ahead of him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was late in the evening by the time Bucky was able to sneak out again, pulling the hood of his cloak up and taking the back alleys to Steve’s apartment. Steve opened the door at his knock, holding a bowl of soup, with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Bucky!” he said, dropping the spoon back into the bowl. It splashed a little on his sweater, the grey one that he’d loaned out yesterday. Seeing Steve in it so soon after he’d worn it gave Bucky an unexpected warm feeling. “I wasn’t expecting you.” He took in Bucky’s face and his smile drooped. “Is everything okay?”

He held the door open for Bucky to enter and then darted to the table to gather up a mess of papers and notes into a pile, which he shoved into one of the kitchen cabinets next to a few shriveled looking potatoes.

“We need to talk,” Bucky said, trying to sound self-assured despite being suddenly unsure of intruding on Steve like this.

“Okay,” Steve said. He twisted his hands together, standing in the middle of the room. “Do you want some soup?”

Bucky glanced at the simmering pot, which smelled delicious, but shook his head. This was too important. He sat down at the table and waited until Steve followed.

“It’s about Pierce. I know you know more about him then you’ve let on, and I—I need your help. What I said last night...I’ve known it wasn’t true for...God, for years now. But every conversation I have with him, every time I try to get out, it’s like he twists my thoughts and words around and around until I can’t remember which way is up anymore—” Bucky stopped for breath, running his hands anxiously through his hair. “I can’t remember who I am or what I believe. I realized when I was a teenager, when things started getting really bad, that it was easier to just not think, not even be present in my own body or mind, really.”

Hearing his own words aloud made him feel sick all over again. But it solidified it too, cementing the truth of it. “That’s what he wants. Today though...I talked to him, and it was different. For the first time, I felt like there was truth under me that he couldn’t pull away. Your words.”

He paused to steady his voice, and Steve took his hand and squeezed it.

“Last night you said there were people above you, someone who was relying on you for something. Tell me how you fit into all of this. Who are you, really?”

Steve took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly, looking pained. “I’ve lied to you, Buck.”

Bucky laughed, a dry sound. “And you think I haven’t been reporting to Pierce about you? Just give me the truth now. I know you’re not really a rich American playboy, for one. You’re not very convincing,” he said with a crooked smile.

Steve took a deep breath, then looked up to meet Bucky’s eyes steadily. “I’m a journalist, just Steve Rogers from Brooklyn. Neither rich nor a playboy. Unsurprisingly, I guess. I’m working with an international security organization that wants Pierce taken out by New Years Eve. They think he’s a threat to big picture stuff, peace between countries even. I was sent to collect information on him, through you. But, Bucky—who I’ve been with you, these past few days, it was me.” He sounded relieved, and his tone grew forceful and earnest, as if this was the most important thing for Bucky to understand. “My mom—aunt, what I said about art, politics, Harvard, it was all true, even if it was tailored to fit someone I’m not. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Steve, I read men for a living. I know when someone is being authentic. We both had agendas, but now we’re here.” He laced their fingers together over the top of the table. “I wish I could just….run away.” He glanced away toward the window, unable to meet Steve’s eyes for the next part. “Maybe with you, if you’d like that. We could go somewhere warm and sunny and forget about Pierce. But I know that’s not who you are, and it’s not who I want to be.”

He looked back again, and Steve was looking at him with the saddest smile, his eyes soft and that wrinkle in between his brows that Bucky wanted to smooth out with his thumb.

“Pierce will never stop.” Bucky continued. “It doesn’t stop with me, or with the Moulin Rouge, or America. He doesn’t need to snatch boys off the street or steal girls from their families because he has his words. His lies that burrow inside of you and infect you like a virus. Even if I run away, there will be another child whose life he will ruin in the same exact way, and more and more after that. We have to do something about him, now, while I still have his trust.”

“We’ll do it together. And maybe afterwards we can go find that sunny place. Together.” Steve smiled at him and Bucky smiled back.  _Maybe. Maybe it was possible._

“I want you to know,” Steve said, looking down at the table. A faint blush rose up his neck. “I have feelings for you that are...very real. The rest of it doesn’t matter to me. When I kissed you last night, I would never want you to think it was part of—part of the whole thing, or anything other than…um...” He trailed off, looking mortified.

“Steve,” Bucky said softly, pulling Steve’s hand across the table toward him. He raised Steve’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. “I know.”

He let his lips drift down to where Steve’s pulse was jumping under the thin skin of his wrist, and placed another kiss there. Steve was very still, watching him, but Bucky could hear his breath coming ever so slightly faster. Bucky flicked his eyes to Steve’s as he turned his hand over to brush his lips across Steve’s knuckles. Steve’s eyes dropped to the motion, pupils dark.

“You might not believe me, but I think I know  _you_ , Steve,” Bucky said, just a whisper against Steve’s fingertips. “Three days ago I would’ve said there was no such thing as a good man.” He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against Steve’s knuckles. “But here you are.” Bucky hesitated, and then added, with a little bit of awe, “With  _me_.”

Bucky opened his eyes to see Steve staring back at him, mouth open slightly.

“Bucky, I—” Steve swallowed, throat bobbing. He freed his hand from Bucky’s to cup Bucky’s cheek instead, tracing Bucky’s lower lip with his thumb. “You deserve the world, Buck. I’d give it to you if I could. Because you’re a good man too.”

Bucky shivered, closing his eyes again. It was too much to hear in Steve’s earnest tones, with Steve’s bright blue eyes intent on him—to know that Steve really believed what he was saying.

They sat like that for a few moments, leaned across the small table. Steve’s fingers traced idly across Bucky’s face, stroking his cheek, his jaw. When Steve’s thumb returned to brush along Bucky’s mouth, Bucky looked up again through his lashes at him and let his lips part, flicking his tongue out across the pad.

Steve inhaled sharply, and Bucky’s mouth curled a little in satisfaction. Encouraged, he reached up again to grasp Steve’s wrist, holding his hand in place and sucking his thumb into his mouth fully, sliding his tongue along the edge and watching how Steve’s gaze narrowed into sharp focus on Bucky’s lips. His hand was trembling.

Bucky moved to kiss the tip of his index finger, and then the next, giving each the same treatment. It felt good, watching Steve shiver, but try to hold himself oh so still. Even better, this wasn’t anything from James’ playbook. It was just Bucky and Steve.

He placed a final kiss on Steve’s palm, and rose from his chair, not releasing Steve’s wrist as he moved around the table—slowly enough that Steve could stop him if he wanted to. But Steve just looked up at him from beneath heavy eyelids, lips parted and panting slightly. So Bucky took another step forward and straddled Steve’s lap, finally letting go of his hand so that Bucky could cup Steve’s face in both of his.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered, echoing Steve’s request from the night before. Steve nodded eagerly.

Bucky’s mouth met his gently at first. But then Steve’s arms went around his waist, tugging him closer so that their chests were pressed together. Bucky’s mouth dropped open to deepen it, and Steve surged forward to meet him.

It was different this time, without the wine and sleepiness blurring the edges of it. Now he could feel the slight scrape of stubble on Steve’s jaw, and how warm Steve’s hands were, splayed across his lower back, holding him there. He chased Steve’s tongue with his, just kissing for several long moments until his head was spinning with it. Without conscious thought, he rocked his hips down against Steve’s, and Steve moaned into his mouth, sending a flare of desire up Bucky’s spine.

And then he hesitated. He’d screwed it up last night, pushing Steve too fast—falling into his habitual strategizing. Bucky really didn’t want to ruin it this time. But suddenly he was worried that he didn’t know, didn’t remember a different way to be. He wanted Steve to feel good, to make him feel all the things Bucky felt for him through his touch. But Bucky wasn’t sure he knew how to do that. This was uncharted territory.

“Hey,” Steve said, as if reading his thoughts, pulling back from the kiss and looking up at Bucky, the line between his eyebrows reappearing. “Come back to me.”

Bucky huffed a little laugh, annoyed at himself, and rested his forehead against Steve’s. “Sorry. Thinking too much.” Bucky bit his lip. “I just—want to make you happy.”

Steve smiled and slid a hand up Bucky’s back to tangle in his hair. “Then stop worrying,” he said. “Because I am. You make me pretty damn happy, Bucky.”

Bucky swallowed, closing his eyes. “I don’t know if I know—how to do this. This way.”

Steve tipped his face up, kissing Bucky again, his hand cradling the back of Bucky’s skull, fingers tangled in his hair.

“Then let me show you,” he said when he pulled away, leaving Bucky a bit breathless. “Let me make you happy.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, simply.

Steve slid his hands under Bucky’s thighs, muscle tensing enough to warn Bucky just as he stood, and Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck, letting him carry him to the bed. Steve set him down delicately, like Bucky was something fragile and precious. Bucky found that he couldn’t tear his eyes from Steve’s face—from the expression there of tenderness and adoration. He felt drunk on it.

Steve crawled up his body, straddling him now, positions reversed, and began to work open the buttons of Bucky’s shirt. There was no haste in his movements, though his hands were trembling slightly and Bucky could see the evidence of his arousal. Soon Steve had him half-undressed, clothes cast aside. Steve’s fingertips landed at the button on his trousers, and Bucky decided that Steve was right—thinking was overrated. He slid his hand up Steve’s thigh and palmed his cock, relishing the choked gasp it drew from Steve, whose hands immediately faltered at the buttons on Bucky’s pants.

“Take yours off too,” Bucky said, surprised at how ragged his voice sounded to his own ears.

“Okay,” Steve said, his own voice a mirror of Bucky’s. He shed his shirt clumsily, with much more speed and significantly less care than he’d used on Bucky. He rose on his knees and struggled out of the rest of his clothes. Then he returned his attention to getting Bucky out of his, sliding both layers of Bucky’s pants and underclothes down Bucky’s legs so that he was entirely bare skin beneath Steve.

Steve stretched out against him, hovering at first until Bucky spread his hands against the smooth, hot skin of Steve’s back and pulled him down against him, letting Steve’s weight press him into the comforter. Steve moaned and shifted a little so that his length rubbed against the divot of Bucky’s hipbone, and his thigh slid against Bucky’s own sensitive cock, making Bucky groan too.

Then Steve found Bucky’s mouth again with his, and this time they didn’t waste any moments before kissing, hot and open mouthed and feverish. Bucky could practically taste the pure want on Steve’s tongue.

Steve’s hands slid downward, pressing the heels against Bucky’s hipbones as he broke the kiss, letting his mouth drift softly down Bucky’s jaw to the hollow of his throat.

“I love you Bucky,” Steve breathed against his skin, and Bucky gasped, fingers digging into Steve’s back with the surprise and longing he felt at the words. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, afraid he’d imagined it. But Steve’s mouth traced his collar bone, and his voice came firmer as he said again, “I love you. And you’re worth all of this to me—worth anything in the world.”

“Steve,” Bucky choked out, entirely overwhelmed by the flood of emotion crashing through his chest. “I—god I love you too—I don’t—I don’t know how to deserve you but I—”

Steve growled, low in his throat, and nipped at Bucky’s chest, hands pressing harder at Bucky’s hips. “ _Don’t_ ,” he said. “You deserve whatever you want, Buck.”

Bucky let his head fall back against Steve’s pillow, panting. It was too much, hearing these things from Steve, feeling every place where their skin was touching. But it was good— _so_  good, and Bucky felt himself lighting up under the words and the gentle touches, coming alive in corners of himself that had been asleep for as long as he could remember.

“Just believe me,” Steve said, mouth pressed to the skin over Bucky’s breastbone. Bucky just nodded, and hoped Steve would feel the gesture. He didn’t have any more words. His heart felt too big for them.

Steve seemed to understand, lifting his head to gaze at Bucky through his lashes.

Bucky moved his hands to thread his fingers in Steve’s soft, golden hair, and Steve sighed, tipping his head into the touch.

“Please,” he said, eyes closed. “Let me love you.”

“Yes.” The word slipped from Bucky’s lips like a benediction, sealing it, sealing this moment as a promise between them.

Steve made a soft sound in his throat and dropped his forehead to Bucky’s stomach, and Bucky watched his shoulders rise and fall with his breath.

Steve moved again, much quicker than he had before, shifting Bucky’s legs apart to lie between them, and took Bucky’s cock in his hand. Bucky’s hips arched into the touch, drawing another long moan from him.

“Say it again,” Steve said, voice shaking a little but hand steady as he stroked him. “Say it like you deserve it, because I love you too.”

“I love you, Steve,” Bucky said at once. And to his surprise he didn’t feel the urge this time to hedge it. It was a truth to be shared between them. Bucky found himself smiling, and he threaded his fingers more firmly into Steve’s hair, grounding them both in it.

Then Steve dropped his head and took Bucky’s cock in his mouth, and the smile fell away into a gasp, giving in to the sensation of Steve’s lips and tongue on him.

Steve began working him down with the same slow care he’d done everything tonight, until Bucky found that he was the one growing desperate for more. His hips twitched up against Steve’s grip, and he tugged at Steve’s hair, urging him on. Bucky’s hands wandered, nails scraping at Steve’s shoulders, cupping Steve’s jaw to feel it stretched around him, pulling at his hair again until Steve caught his urgency. He dug his fingers sharply into Bucky’s flank, and sank lower until Bucky felt himself hit the back of Steve’s throat, and Steve let out a hum of satisfaction.

Bucky shuddered, feeling suddenly so close to the edge, and he writhed under Steve without noticing the sounds dropping from his mouth. But Steve seemed to, and he redoubled his efforts at once, looking up at Bucky from beneath the dark fringe of his lashes as Bucky shivered apart under him.

Bucky came at last with a gasp, only pulling his gaze away from Steve’s as the wave of it finally hit him and they shut of their own accord. Steve didn’t pull away, moaning as Bucky’s muscles tensed and spasmed under his hands, giving himself over to the pure pleasure.

His chest heaved as he came down from the orgasm, and he found himself smoothing his hand over and over through Steve’s soft hair. Steve lay still, too, nosing at the crease of Bucky’s hip, panting against his skin. But his body was still coiled tense with his own need.

Bucky reached for him, feeling dazed and weightless—and wanting Steve to feel the same.

He pulled Steve back up his body, and Steve let himself be pulled, until Bucky could roll him over on the cool pillows to return the favor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter!! I hope you guys like it! thank you so much for reading and commenting!

Bucky woke up gradually to a faint but persistent scratching sound, feeling warm and well rested and...satiated. He took a minute to simply dwell in that feeling, a new and unusual one for him, smiling a little to himself before he opened his eyes to Steve’s apartment. The early morning sun was a crisp, bright white in the way that could only mean it had finally snowed last night. He stretched, realizing the spot next to him was empty, and looked over to see Steve perched on a stool, propping up a sketchbook in one hand, charcoal in the other and looking extremely shifty.

“Are you...drawing me? While I’m sleeping?”

“You looked so beautiful!” Steve said, with a rush of pink to his cheeks.

He was wearing nothing but a pair of thin, soft pants, and had an adorable smudge of charcoal across his forehead. It was a lot to take in this soon after waking up, especially with the memory of the look on Steve’s face as he took him in his mouth last night fresh in his mind, and becoming more vivid by the second. Bucky suddenly realized he was not wearing a single stitch of clothing, and he pulled the blankets around him as he climbed to the end of the bed so that he could lick his thumb and clean Steve’s forehead with it.

“You’re an odd duck, Steve Rogers,” he said fondly, as he ran his fingers through Steve’s hair, sticking up at crazy angles. Steve tilted his face up to kiss him, regardless of morning breath and frizzy hair and nakedness, with such familiarity it was like something he’d done a million times.

Bucky tilted the sketchbook down so he could see it. The man in the portrait was almost delicate, his long lashes casting a shadow in the beam of light that fell on his face, his hair spread like wings on the pillow, falling down to curl over his exposed collarbones. Bucky studied his own face, at peace, almost with a hint of a smile on his lips, parted and a little swollen still.

Steve was watching him. “Do you like it?” he asked softly, trailing his fingers across Bucky’s shoulder and down his back.

Bucky nodded. It was intimate and uncomfortably exposing all at the same time, to be seen like this—to see himself as Steve saw him. He wanted to crawl under the covers and never be seen again. Or maybe, drag Steve into the bed with him to see if they could reproduce some of those noises from last night. Something in between those two options.

“How did you learn to draw like this?” he asked, avoiding Steve’s eyes.

Steve raised an eyebrow at his deflection. “I don’t really know. I guess it came from my mom. Sarah. She loved art, although I never saw her draw anything herself. But she brought me along to see any art she could, and I was always doodling on scraps, from before I remember. As soon as I was old enough, she put me in art classes, even though we never had enough money for it. I don’t know how she managed it. But when I got older, school became more important to me, getting a scholarship and all that, and art kind of faded into the background. My mom was already sick—consumption—and I was working and trying to provide for us.”

He sighed, looking tired just at the memory. “I went to Harvard—you knew that already, but on a full writing scholarship. Hated it, like I said. Learned enough about journalism to realize I didn’t need the degree, and my mom was getting worse and it all seemed so stupid—the parties and the people and the classes, just shallow and pointless.”

He looked down at the sketchbook in his hand, flipping through the pages. Bucky watched Steve’s face change, a sadness that pulled the corners of his eyes down and sketched lines beside his mouth.

“I didn’t really pick up drawing again until she was dying, and I had to pass all these endless hours at her bedside. And then after—I threw myself into writing, made myself so busy I barely had time to think, but I still found the time and money to go to a class once a week, for her. The past couple of weeks in Paris, before...you know, all the Pierce stuff, I finally had time to draw and paint again. But my art was just kind of...lifeless.” He looked down at the sketch of Bucky and smiled. “Not this though.”

“Feel free to stare at your drawing as long as you want...but if you want the real thing...”

Bucky got up slowly, taking a thin sheet with him, and sat on Steve’s lap, pushing the sketchbook out of the way so it fell out of his hand with a thunk.

Steve turned pink. He mumbled something, and then cleared his throat. “I want to, but I sent a message to Natasha before you woke up. She’s going to be here any minute to make a plan for tonight.”

Bucky sat up like he’d been electrified. “Shit,  _tonight_? Today is New Years Eve. Oh my god, I forgot what day it was.”

A loud knock on the door startled them both, and Steve’s face wrinkled in confusion. The knock came again, more insistent this time, and Bucky scrambled off of Steve’s lap to find his clothes and shoes, pulling them on hastily as Steve approached the door cautiously.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

“We’re here to collect James Barnes. He’s needed at the Moulin Rouge.”

Bucky shook his head at Steve frantically, but Steve was already opening the door a crack to look out. The door slammed against the wall as one of Pierce’s bodyguards pushed past Steve to stride across the room and grab Bucky by the arm.

“Let’s go,” he said roughly, grabbing Bucky’s cloak from the table and shoving it in his chest.

“Steve—I’m sorry—” he managed, before the guard was yanking him toward the door and out into the street, slipping on the icy, snow covered cobblestones.

The ornate coach that they used for patrons was waiting in front of Steve’s house. Pierce had sent it for him. Pierce knew he had come to see Steve again, after claiming to be done with him, knew he’d be catching him off guard this early in the morning, establishing control in the game that was always, always being played.

Bucky sat frozen in the carriage as it made the short trip to the Moulin Rouge, not even moving to put on his cloak, just holding it in limp hands. As they pulled into the courtyard, the guard told him to wait, so he did, his mind completely blank. Pierce climbed into the carriage to sit across from him in the tight space, regarding him calmly with the same detached, vaguely paternal gaze as always.

“Why were you at Steven Grant’s house last night?”

“Are you having me followed?”

“Of course I was.” Pierce said, almost incredulous at the question. “It’s for your own safety. I’ll give you another chance to answer my question: why were you at his apartment, without my permission, when you said you were done with him?”

Bucky didn’t respond. He was done with playing this game with Pierce.

“Does this have to do with your silly crush on him? Were you letting him fuck you for free?”

Bucky tried not to react, but he felt his face tighten to hear Pierce talk about Steve like that—to talk about  _him_  like that.

Pierce’s gaze sharpened, like a cat honing in on a mouse trapped in a corner. “No, it’s not that exactly, is it? There’s something else…” His face grew suspicious as he looked Bucky up and down, taking in his clenched jaw and white knuckles. “Such anger, it’s unusual for you, Jamie. Maybe Steve is a bad influence on you. In fact...perhaps Steve is turning you against me somehow?”

Bucky tried desperately not to react, but Pierce’s gaze was a scalpel slicing him open, exposing his thoughts. Pierce’s eyes narrowed, and Bucky could see him putting the pieces together. He couldn’t let that happen—not knowing what he knew now, that this was so much bigger than just him and Steve.

“He wants to run away together to America,” he blurted out. Pierce’s eyebrows shot up, and more words tumbled out of Bucky’s mouth. “My whole life...you made me believe I was only worth as much as someone would pay for me. But he  _loves_  me.”

Pierce laughed, a harsh bark that was loud in the small space. He leaned back in his seat. “You dumb slut,” he said, with a smile on his face. “You really think he loves you! Oh, this is rich.  _Love_ , Jamie? Do you love him?” he said mockingly. “You’re delusional. You’ve created a fantasy where he returns your feelings and you live happily ever after with your Prince Charming.”

He laughed again, and the sound snapped something inside of Bucky.

“You don’t know him. And you don’t know me,” he spat out, unable to stop himself.

“Oh, but I  _do_  know you, Jamie. I know you better than you know yourself. And even if he did try to take you to America—as his, what, his mistress?” He smiled pityingly. “I’d never let that happen.”

“I’m not your property,” Bucky said through gritted teeth, rage burning hot and white on his skin. “I’m not a child anymore. I have the right to come and go as I please without you needing to control me every fucking minute.”

“Oh, Jamie. See, that’s where you’re wrong. You  _don’t_  have that right. You’re the property of the Moulin Rouge—and more importantly, a very expensive investment of mine. So much of my money, so much of my time. I won’t let it be wasted.”

“I can leave any time, walk out of here on my own two feet. You can’t stop me.” Bucky was breathing fast, the tight walls of the carriage closing in on him.

“Yes, you could, but where would you be? You don’t have any money, your clothes and belongings were all bought by me, you’d be on the streets, hungry and alone.”

Bucky wanted to kill Pierce right there, squeeze his neck until he stopped breathing, wipe that hideous smug look off his face.

“You don’t think Steven Grant will get tired of you? Because he’s  _different_? You’re a whore,” Pierce sneered. “You’re nothing. No one will ever want you.”

Bucky’s rage instantly went calm and flat, like the sea in the center of a hurricane.

“You’re wrong.”

Anger flickered across Pierce’s face. Bucky met his eyes as they stared at each other across the carriage, lines drawn in the sand.

Pierce’s hand snapped up to slap him, but Bucky was quicker, and grabbed his wrist in midair.

“You’re wrong,” he said again, like he was hearing it for the first time, as the truth grounded in his chest and took root there.

He let go of Pierce’s wrist, feeling a flash of fear. He shouldn’t have done that. A vein throbbed in Pierce’s forehead as his façade slipped and Bucky saw the poisoned, ugly rage underneath.

“What makes you think you can talk to me like that?” Pierce asked in a dangerous whisper. “You think I can’t take everything away from you?” He reached across to grab Bucky’s face as he tried to lean away, but the carriage was too small. There was nowhere to go. “I’ll kill you.”

Bucky simply stared into his eyes, letting him see that wasn’t a threat that he was afraid of anymore.

“Or I won’t kill you.” He dragged his other finger softly down Bucky’s face. “I’ll ruin your pretty face. No one will want to look at you anymore.” His finger drifted down to Bucky’s throat. “I’ll cut out your pretty voice. Break your fingers so you can’t play piano.”

“I. Don’t. Care,” Bucky said slowly. Pierce released his face, pushing him away.

“Fine,” he said. He assessed Bucky coldly for a minute, his eyes flat and black. “Maybe you’ll care when it’s Steve.”

All the air went out of Bucky’s lungs, like he’d been punched in the stomach. Pierce smiled at the look on his face.

“That’s better,” Pierce said. “Now I have your cooperation again, don’t I?”

“You wouldn’t,” Bucky whispered. “He has family...he has connections...it wouldn’t be that easy.” He hated how desperate he sounded, the waver in his voice that betrayed him.

“Easy? You’re forgetting who I am and who I control. I can do whatever I want to him, I could make a rich boy disappear just as easily as a forgotten, discarded whore. I don’t even need a reason.”

Bucky realized he’d lost. This was Pierce’s checkmate. There was no way Bucky would ever let that happen to Steve, and he’d let Pierce see it and use it against him. He’d do anything Pierce asked if it kept Steve safe and unharmed. Hope drained out of him.

“You’ll go to him one more time, and tell him that you’ve changed your mind, and you’re staying with me.”

Bucky closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at Pierce’s smile and nodded. He felt a quiet sense of relief as he hollowed himself out inside, let everything drift away until he was completely empty. No feelings, no thoughts, no dangerous, sharp hope to fall on like a sword. Just a blank canvas, ready to be painted however the viewer desired. This was how he had survived before, and it was how he would survive now.

“And after that, if I ever see him again—I’ll have him killed.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve had been pacing back and forth his apartment for an hour now, waiting for Natasha to show up. How had Pierce found out he was here? What was going to happen to Bucky? He didn’t know what Pierce was capable of. Where was Natasha? They needed to do something, anything to help Bucky. He dragged his hands through his hair and continued to pace.

A knock on the door interrupted his muttering. He instinctively reached for the handle, thinking it was Nat. But...she wouldn’t knock. She hadn’t the other times.

“Who’s there?” he called out, his heart pounding.

“It’s me.”

“Bucky!” Steve flung open the door and threw his arms around Bucky.

It was like embracing a statue. His heart dropped into his stomach as he realized Bucky was flanked by the two guards again. Something was very wrong. He pulled away quickly, holding Bucky by the shoulders so he could look into his face. It was like looking at a stranger. He was dressed formally, in a grey and black jacket with a high collar and a tapered waist, with long black gloves and heavy diamond jewelry. His face, partially hidden under a veil, was vacant and empty like a porcelain doll.

“Bucky, look at me,” Steve said, suddenly afraid. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m staying with Pierce,” Bucky said, looking somewhere over Steve’s shoulder. “I can’t turn down the opportunities he’s offering me. I came to say goodbye. I won’t be seeing you again after this.” His voice was flat and polite as he slipped out from under Steve’s grip and walked a few steps away, his back to Steve.

Steve shook his head. “What are you talking about? What about last night, what we said? How can you—”

“You don’t understand, Steve,” Bucky said. He took a deep breath before turning around to face Steve. “The difference between you and I is that you can leave any time you choose. It’s not as simple for me. The Moulin Rouge is my home.”

“No,  _no_ —” Steve said, his voice rising as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. “How can you be saying this? This can’t be real—please, there’s something you’re not saying. Just tell me.”

He reached for Bucky’s gloved hand and pulled him in so that they were standing close together. He wanted to touch Bucky’s face, his hair, his waist, to assure himself that this was really happening, but his hand just hovered uselessly. He searched Bucky’s face, trying to read something in his pale, strained expression.

“Tell me the truth, Buck, please.” He was begging now. Bucky finally met his eyes.

“The truth is I’m a courtesan, Steve. You knew what I was this entire time. And I’m staying with Pierce.” His voice was cold, and his eyes were empty and distant as he looked back at Steve, as if he was thousand miles away, talking to a stranger about some inconsequential matter.

Steve watched uncomprehendingly as Bucky turned his back without another look and walked out. The guards didn’t bother to shut the door behind them. He listened to them walk all the way down the stairs and out the front door of his building before something kicked into place and he sprinted after them. He stumbled out the door, not even feeling the snow on his bare feet.

“Bucky, please, you don’t have to do this—”

Bucky half-turned from where he was about to climb into the carriage. He paused for a second, his shoulders tightening, and Steve could swear that under the veil a struggle passed over Bucky’s face before it went cold and still, like marble.

“James. Not Bucky.” Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out Steve’s scarf, holding it out in one shaking hand, but not offering it to Steve. He let go, and it tumbled to the snow at Steve’s feet. “Don’t contact me, and don’t come to the Moulin Rouge again. Goodbye, Steven.”

And then he was gone.

Steve’s knees went wobbly and he crouched down in the cold, wet snow, holding his head. His lungs felt like they were being crushed in a vise; he focused on forcing air in and out of his airway. He didn’t know how long he stayed there like that, but his feet and hands were numb by the time someone touched his shoulder. He looked up to see Natasha’s worried face peering down at him.

 

“What happened?” she asked, after dragging him inside and forcing him to change his wet clothes and drink a cup of hot tea. “I just got your note about Bucky and came as soon as I could. Did something happen?”

“I don’t know what happened—last night I thought he had a breakthrough, he was all in to help us, and we—we….and then this morning Pierce’s guards came and grabbed him, and an hour later he came back and said he was choosing to stay with Pierce.”

“Pierce’s guards came here? They took him back against his will?”

Steve nodded. “Pierce must have threatened something or done something to him, he wouldn’t just change his mind like that.” He dragged his hands down his face.

“His relationship with Pierce is complex, Steve. From what you’ve told me in your notes, the kind of control Pierce has over him—”

“I know that, but he was  _ready_. He said he’s been ready for years. I don’t think he would willingly—you didn’t hear what he said to me last night—”

He slumped back in his chair. Last night had been real—Steve would bet his soul on it.

“And Nat, the look on his face...there was nothing behind his eyes. It was like Bucky was completely gone, to somewhere I couldn’t reach.”

Steve buried his face in his hands, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. Nat squeezed his shoulder and they sat in silence for a minute.

“You’ve been really helpful for this mission, Steve. I’ll take it from here.”

Steve looked up. “What do you mean? This isn’t over. I’m seeing this through to the end.”

“You’re a journalist. Your mission was collecting information for us and you’ve done that. This would be too dangerous for you.”

“I want to help take down Pierce tonight,” Steve said. “Please, there must be something I can do.”

Natasha hesitated. “Well. The thing is…” She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I could use your help. The reason it took me so long to get here is because I found out the other agent that was supposed to be my partner tonight never showed up to her meeting point. The only other agent we have nearby had to go check in on her. Peggy had to go to an urgent meeting with Nick in London two days ago and I don’t know when she’ll be back. So it would be a solo mission, but with so much riding on this...”

“I can be your contingency plan.” Steve supplied, desperate. “I know my way around the inside of the Moulin Rouge. I know where Pierce’s office is, and the secret passageway. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“I need you to understand that this is all or nothing. I’m going in there to kill Pierce. If he’s not dead by midnight this will all have been for nothing.” Natasha’s gaze was steely and unflinching.

“I understand,” Steve said.

“This is personal for you  _now_...but for me—this goes back decades. When I was a child in St. Petersburg, I ran in what were likely the same street kid circles as Bucky. I met Pierce when I was around twelve, and he brought me to his ‘house’ with the promise of a bed and a warm meal. I didn’t like authority, or men for that matter, and I didn’t trust anything about him. I ate his meal and got the hell out of there, but I never forgot it,” Natasha said.

“I watched kids vanish into his brothel and not come back out for the next couple of years. I never lost track of him, even as we both worked our way west, crossing paths every so often. But there was only so much I could do on my own. When I joined up with Peggy and her organization, and then heard Pierce was coming here to Paris, I knew it was time to make a move. And things spiraled with the Moulin Rouge from there. Anyway.”

She laid a pistol out on the table with a thunk. Steve hadn’t seen where she’d pulled it out from.

“Do you know how to use one of these?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

There were still a few hours before the New Years Eve show, when the Moulin Rouge would open for the evening. Pierce would appear in public, and they could infiltrate by blending in with the crowds. There was enough time for a refresher course on pistols for Steve, even though Natasha stressed that he shouldn’t use it except for an emergency, and they sketched out a blueprint of the theater and cobbled together a few rough plans.

Then Natasha went back to wherever she lived to change, and Steve put on another tuxedo. He watched the snow fall against the dark sky outside as he tied the black silk bowtie.

What was Bucky doing right now? Steve pictured him at the piano in his room, or doing his hair at his vanity, or standing backstage watching the dancers rehearse. He felt like there was something he should have done, something he must have missed, to have let Bucky slip through his fingers back into Pierce’s grasp. He had to make it right.

 

He met Natasha outside of his apartment, and they walked to the Moulin Rouge together silently. It was eerily empty on the streets for New Years Eve, people probably wanting to stay home in the bad weather. The snow even muffled the sounds coming from the rows of houses, and Steve couldn’t help but feel a sense of finality in the strange white isolation. As they turned a corner and the brightly lit facade came into view, the sounds of the raucous crowd streaming into the doors was almost a relief.

He and Natasha paused in front of the gates to the Moulin Rouge. She wasn’t wearing a disguise tonight, her auburn hair swept up into a high updo, and an elegantly simple black and white gown under her coat. He had no doubt she was concealing a variety of deadly weapons under it.

“Don’t forget the mission, Steve. It will be tempting to get distracted, but this is about Pierce.”

“I know. This is bigger than Bucky.”

Natasha nodded at him solemnly, and they entered the doors of the Moulin Rouge once more.

 

They let themselves be pulled by the tide of the crowd through the lobby, before splitting off and taking a side entrance to the theater. The show was already well in progress, but as they looked up to Pierce’s box—it was dark and empty. Natasha swore in Russian. There went Plan A: quietly and efficiently dispatch Pierce in his box and slip out before anyone noticed.

“Let’s try the lobby,” Steve said. “He might be mingling.”

They loitered in the lobby, at the bar, and on the dance floor until they could be certain Pierce wasn’t with the public, not even in the roped-off VIP section. They went down the hallway where Bucky’s suite was, listening at each silent door, before Steve took Natasha down the basement staircase to the damp, maze-like warren of storage rooms. No sign of anyone, let alone Pierce. They reached the staircase that led to Pierce’s office and looked at each other. The show continued to thunder on over their heads.

“We’re running out of time. I’ll go alone to his office. It will be easy to surprise him and finish it if he’s there,” Natasha said. “You go backstage since they’ll recognize you, and keep your ears open for any hint of where he is. Meet me back on the dance floor, under Pierce’s box by the gold statue, as soon as possible.”

Steve headed back upstairs, slipping around the edges of the theater and behind the curtains.

It was a mad rush of activity, with anxious dancers scurrying everywhere in various stages of costume, their elaborate costumes blocking hallways and and clogging up staircases, and a few harassed looking men holding clipboards trying and failing to manage the chaos. No one spared a second glance at Steve, and he tried to look confident and purposeful so no one would question him.

Minutes ticked by, and there was no mention of Pierce, no matter how many conversations he eavesdropped on, listening to the dancers discuss a rip in their tights or Jeanette’s sprained ankle. He was lingering by the doorway of one of the dressing rooms when he felt a prickling on his neck. Something was wrong—someone had noticed him. He turned slowly to see one of the guards who had been at his apartment earlier that day watching him with narrowed eyes.

The guard’s hand slowly moved towards his holster, and Steve ducked into a group of dancers that was heading out to the stage, hunching over and hoping their massive skirts would hide him from view. They reached the wings of the stage, and he found a dark corner, hidden by the ropes and pulleys of the curtains. The guard passed him by, his gun at the ready, scanning the crowds for him.

Steve’s heart was pounding. Should he risk staying backstage now that he’d been spotted? Or go out to meet Natasha? He checked his pocketwatch—10 minutes to midnight.

As he hesitated, he heard something that made his heart skip a beat. Bucky’s voice—not even a meter from where he was standing. Steve peeked out from behind the rigging to see him talking to a stage manager. He was wearing a silky, lacy black outfit, with a sheer robe cascading over a corset and garters. Pierce had to have picked out. Bucky looked stunning, with his hair twisted away from his face, falling in curls down his back, and his lips a deep scarlet—but it just wasn’t right. Not for the song Steve had heard, the longing and the purity of it.

“So as soon as this is done, they’ll just roll the piano out and you’ll walk out when the lights go up.”

“Just like we rehearsed,” Bucky said distractedly, nodding.

He was stretching his wrists and fingers, and his face looked pale and worried in the dark gloom of the stage’s wings. The stage manager hurried off, and before Steve knew what he was doing, he reached out to grab Bucky’s wrist, ignoring his gasp, and pulled him back into the dark corner with him, concealed from view.

“Wha—Steve,” Bucky said breathlessly. His eyes filled with fear, and he shook his head frantically as he pulled his hand out of Steve’s. “No, no, you can’t be here. You have to leave.”

“I’m here to do what needs to be done, Bucky, whether you’ll help us or not. But I had to talk to you— _please_ , we’re alone now, just tell me what happened, did Pierce threaten you? Did he hurt you?”

“I can’t—I told you not to come. You can’t be here,” Bucky said again, desperately, not listening to Steve.

“Where is Pierce? We need to find him.”

“He’ll kill you,” Bucky whispered.

“I’ll kill that fucker first,” Steve said savagely. “It’s the only thing that matters now.”

Bucky’s face finally went calm, and the fear drained away. It wasn’t the lifeless mask of before, but something more like peace. Like decision and resignation. He took Steve’s hand in his and pulled them close together, cupping his cheek with the other one. He brushed his thumb across Steve’s cheekbone and down the line of his nose, smiling a little. His hand lingered on Steve’s lips, but he didn’t lean in to kiss Steve, instead pulling him down so their foreheads touched and closing his eyes.

 

                                      

 

 

The stage lights went black as the dancers finished, and they were plunged into darkness, the sound of applause washing over them. Steve felt Bucky’s lips brush against his, and as the lights came back up, he was gone.

And he wasn’t the only thing, Steve realized. Bucky had taken his pistol.

Steve watched, frozen, as Bucky accepted the book of sheet music an assistant handed him, and calmly slipped the gun inside before tipping his chin up, putting on a smile, and walking out into the spotlight.

He sat down at the piano, and Steve was drawn out of his hiding spot by a force he couldn’t resist, moving like a sleepwalker to stand in the folds of the velvet curtain. Bucky started playing, and the audience fell silent. He was facing straight out to the audience, but Steve felt his eyes pulled up, across the stage, on Bucky’s other side, to Pierce’s box. It wasn’t empty now. Pierce was sitting alone at the very front, lit by the light of the stage, watching Bucky. His eyes glittered with cruel satisfaction.

“ _Seasons may change, winter to spring_ ,” Bucky sang onstage. He looked over at Steve and smiled as he sang the next lines. “ _But I love you, until the end of time.”_

Steve looked back at Pierce, watching as his eyes narrowed and followed Bucky’s line of sight until they met Steve’s. His face went cold and hard.

_“Come what may...”_

The strings crescendoed. Pierce’s mouth tightened, and he leaned back to beckon to the guard standing in the shadows behind him.

_“Come what may…”_

Bucky glanced over at Steve again as he sang, but the look on Steve’s face as his eyes darted between the guard and Pierce and Bucky, still playing, made Bucky look up to Pierce’s box too.

_“I will love you…”_

Bucky’s voice faltered as he realized what was happening, and he played a wrong note that made an unsettled murmur pass through the crowd. He looked at Steve, his eyes wide, and then stood up, his jaw set.

In one swift motion, he pulled the gun out from the pages of his music, aimed it straight at Pierce’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

 

There was a moment where everyone in the room, as one, followed the path of the bullet and watched as Pierce’s head snapped back, blood spattering the gold behind him. The gunshot echoed through the theater as the crowd started screaming and stampeding towards the door. Steve ran onstage and pulled Bucky back into the wings,—and suddenly Natasha was there, taking the gun out of Bucky’s violently shaking hand and holstering it.

“Time to go,” she said grimly, draping her coat over Bucky and pulling the hood up to cover his face. She pushed them towards a side exit, and then they were out in the snow, running, as fireworks burst overhead as midnight was rung in, and the lights of the Moulin Rouge faded fast behind them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**EPILOGUE**

“Steve! We have a visitor!” Bucky called as he pushed open the door of the farmhouse, carrying a basket of fruit he’d been out collecting. He found Steve in his usual spot at the sunny kitchen table.

“Visitor?” Steve asked absently, without looking up from whatever he was furiously scribbling away at.

“Is that any way to greet your best friend?”

“Sam!” Steve jumped up from the table and wrapped Sam in a huge hug, nearly knocking him over. “What are you doing here?”

Sam was laughing as he pulled Steve off of him and grasped him by the shoulders.

“Nick Fury sent me as his envoy to meet with Peggy. And Peggy was nice enough to let me come and the deliver good news to you guys in person.”

“Good news?” Steve asked, looking at Bucky with his eyebrows raised.

If Steve had learned anything in the past year, it was that he wasn’t made for laying low. And although the French countryside was lovely and they’d certainly made the most of their impromptu honeymoon, five months was a long time for someone like Steve to laze around and enjoy himself. Even Bucky, who’d thought that lounging about in the sun, eating, cooking and making love to Steve, and writing music would be his dream life, was ready to do something. He just wasn’t sure quite what that was yet.

“She says it’s looking like the Pierce situation has blown over once and for all. Apparently the uproar has finally started to die down for the first time since January. People are bored with it. You know how people are, always looking for a newer and better scandal to move on to. Anyway, it seems like the public has largely accepted that the claims in your article about Pierce are true. Especially after the huge number of victims came forward after Bucky’s piece.”

He looked over to Bucky and grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for letting me publish that along with Steve’s exposé, by the way. And I’m thrilled to finally meet you in person.”

Bucky smiled back, unable to resist Sam’s charm. Telling his own story, the way he wanted, had been painful, but more than worth it once Peggy had told him about the response to it on her last visit. Between her visits, the frequent letters sailing back and forth between New York and France, and Nat’s postcards from far-flung destinations, Bucky suddenly had more friends than he’d ever had before.  _Maybe even a family_ , he thought, looking at Steve.

“Peggy says that no one is pursuing any charges against you—or, James, rather,” Sam continued. “Most people that were there can’t provide an accurate picture of what happened, what with the stampede, and the alcohol, and then the blizzard...it sounds like it was pretty chaotic. So...you guys are in the clear!”

Bucky sighed in relief, tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding melting out of his shoulders. Steve took his hand and squeezed it gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“There’s one more thing she wanted me to ask you. She says if you’re interested, she’d love to have two more agents on her team with your particular skills sets. There’s always more bad guys to take down, whether it’s in New York or France or, who knows? I hear Natasha is in China.”

Steve’s brow was furrowed as he looked to Bucky for his response before saying anything. Sam looked between them.

“I’ll give you guys a minute. I know it’s a lot to take in all at once.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered back out the front door towards their garden.

“What do you think?” Steve asked, pulling Bucky in and wrapping his arms around him. Bucky tucked his chin into Steve’s collarbone. This possibly was his favorite spot in the whole world.

“I publish under a pseudonym anyway,” Steve said thoughtfully, “And no one will connect Bucky with the James from the Moulin Rouge. Especially not with this,” he said, running his fingers through Bucky’s new, short hair. “We don’t have to do it. I have my writing, you have your music…”

Bucky shook his head and tipped his face up to look at Steve. “I think we both know that’s not enough for either of us. Not when there are more people like Pierce out there.”

Steve kissed him. “God, I love you. Of course we’re going to be spies! How could I have thought otherwise.” He laughed and snagged a nectarine out of the basket on the table, taking a bite out of it. “It’s been nice here though, hasn’t it?”

Bucky looked at him. A faint sunburn made his eyes even bluer than usual and the beginnings of freckles were just starting across his nose.

“It has,” he said, leaning in to kiss Steve.

His mouth tasted of sweet fruit juice, his lips slightly sticky against Bucky’s own. Steve ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair again, something he couldn’t seem to stop doing now that it was short, tugging slightly on the waves. Bucky’s hands wandered down to wrap around Steve’s waist, pulling him in even closer and holding on tight.

Every day he still had to convince himself that Steve was his, that Pierce was dead, that he was free. Free to go wherever he wanted, be whoever he wanted to be. And Steve would be there with him.

_Come what may_. He’d sung it for Steve the night of New Years, finally finding the words to his song, and he meant them just as much every time after that, when he murmured them to Steve in their bed on dark nights, after the nightmares, or whispered them in Steve’s ear as their bodies joined together, nothing between them but skin.

He pulled away from Steve’s kiss to smile at him.

“It’s a brand new century,” he said. “And we’ve got work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we did it! thanks again to Witchy and the RBB mods and the friends who encouraged me along the way. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This is the version of Come What May I was imagining Bucky singing! (It's the best version imo)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxJBdI0vjyI

**Author's Note:**

>    
> [These days I'm most active on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/calendulaes/status/1132333436553682944)  
> [I'm also on tumblr!](https://calendulae.tumblr.com/post/185133225056/chapter-1-of-my-captain-america-reverse-big-bang)  
>  
> 
> [Witchy's tumblr](https://witchylurker.tumblr.com)  
> [Witchy's twitter](https://twitter.com/witchylurker)


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